Wrinkles and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait.

That's not writing, that's typing

I love New York, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.

I couldn't understand a sense of unease that multiplied until I could hear my heart beating.

I've tried to believe, but I don't, I can't, and there's no use pretending.

[Y]outh is hardly human: it can't be, for the young never believe they will die...especially would they never believe that death comes, and often, in forms other than the natural one.

I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years.