And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

I am made, crudely, for success.

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.