God has to remind us this isn’t heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
Everything in life is writable...
We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.
I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people’s minds and souls.
We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.
I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can.
I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn’t speak.
The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.
The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm.
You know what lies are for.
I never feel so much myself as when I’m in a hot bath.
That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. “Save them for my funeral,” I’d said.
I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.
Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.
My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.