Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Your room is not your prison. You are.

Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?

What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.