I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
…beating time along the edge of thought.
The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.
Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing."