Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is

I Am Terrified By This Dark Thing That Sleeps In Me; All Day I Feel Its Soft, Feathery Turnings, Its Malignity. Clouds Pass And Disperse. Are Those The Faces Of Love, Those Pale Irretrievables? Is It For Such I Agitate My Heart? I Am Incapable Of More Knowledge. What Is This, This Face So Murderous In Its Strangle Of Branches? - Its Snaky Acids Kiss. It Petrifies The Will. These Are The Isolate, Slow Faults That Kill, That Kill, That Kill.

I Wanted Change And Excitement And To Shoot Off In All Directions Myself, Like The Colored Arrows From A Fourth Of July Rocket.

If Only A Group Of People Were More Important To Me Than The Idea Of A Novel, I Might Begin A Novel.

There Is A Certain Unique And Strange Delight About Walking Down An Empty Street Alone.

Everything People Did Seemed So Silly, Because They Only Died In The End.