I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I musn't say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.

If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.

This is newness: every little tawdry Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There's no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe. We have only come to look. You are too new To want the world in a glass hat.