Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.

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

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more