I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

I dream too much, work too little.

Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.

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

I hate Technicolor. Everybody in a Technicolor movie seems to feel obliged to wear a lurid costume in each new scene and to stand around like a clotheshorse with a lot of very green trees or very yellow wheat or very blue ocean rolling away for miles and miles in every direction.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.