I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.