It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.
You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.
No day is safe from news of you.
Mother of otherness, Eat me.
I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I’d never seen before in my life.
Wear your heart on your skin in this life.
I have stitched life into me like a rare organ.
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.
I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
I’d say go to hell, but I never want to see you again.
I think I am mad sometimes.
I used to pray to recover you.
There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.