How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

You have lost all delight in life. Ahead is a large array of blind alleys. You are half-deliberately, half-desperately cutting off your grip on creative life. You are becoming a neuter machine. You cannot love, even if you knew how to begin to love. Every thought is a devil, a hell-if you could do a lot of things over again, ah, how differently you would do them! You want to go home, back to the womb. You watch the world bang door after door in your face, numbly, bitterly. You have forgotten the secret you knew, once, ah, once, of being joyous, of laughing, of opening doors.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream