Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.

O love, how did you get here?

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

Everything in life is writable.