We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.

Opinions are like orgasms...mine matters most and I really don't care if you have one.

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

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?

Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.

I think I am mad sometimes.