I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
I talk to God but the sky is empty.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn’t thought about it.
I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.
How we need another soul to cling to.
Dying is an art. Like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I have a call.
I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
What did my arms do before they held you?
Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.
I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
I wonder why I don’t go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
I was supposed to be having the time of my life.
There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.