I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.

O heart, such disorganization!

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I musn't say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.