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

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of stories, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

How many different deaths I can die?