Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

The day I went into physics class it was death.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.