Tomorrow is another day toward death.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I wondered what I thought I was burying.

I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.