How many different deaths I can die?

I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.