How we need another soul to cling to.

I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now: This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is certainly the superior one. She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints. At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality- She lay in bed with me like a dead body And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints. I couldn't sleep for a week she was so cold.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

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

I am myself. That is not enough.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.