I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.

And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

I think I made you up inside my head.

The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.