I think I am mad sometimes.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.

I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my willpower? The idea of a life gets in the way of my life...I dream too much, work too little.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.