As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.

The lyric abstrusities of Auden ring mystically down the circular canals of my ear and it begins to look like snow. The good gray conservative obliterating snow. Smoothing (in one white lacy euphemism after another) out all the black bleak angular unangelic nauseous ugliness of the blasted sterile world: dry buds, shrunken stone houses, dead vertical moving people all all all go under the great white beguiling wave. And come out transformed. Lose yourself in a numb dumb snow-daubed lattice of crystal and come out pure with the white virginal veneer you never had.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.