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

I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.

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

How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off