There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

…beating time along the edge of thought.

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.