Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.

The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.