“The abstract kills, the concrete saves.”

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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.

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

Everything in life is writable.

I woke to the sound of rain.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.