I am myself. That is not enough.
It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.
When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.
One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.
After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.
The box is only temporary.
Your room is not your prison. You are.
Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
I am what I feel and think and do.
We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.