What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.