This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.

It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative--which ever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.