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.

I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

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

If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.