I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.