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

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing."

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

Character is fate.

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.