I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

Mother of otherness, Eat me.

Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.