What is so real as the cry of a child?

The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know. "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said. "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.

I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.

If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.