The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.

You smile. No, it is not fatal.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.

I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.