If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.

I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.

Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.