The More Hopeless You Were, The Further

What Is My Life For And What Am I Going To Do With It? I Don't Know And I'm Afraid.

I Feel, Am Mad As Any Writer Must In One Way Be; Why Not Make It Real? I Am Too Close To The Bourgeois Society Of Suburbia: Too Close To People I Know I Must Sever My Self From Them, Or Be A Part Of Their World: This Half And Half Compromise Is Intolerable.

I Want To Kill Myself, To Escape From Responsiblity, To Crawl Abjectly Back Into The Womb.

I Had Been Alone More Than I Could Have Been Had I Gone By Myself.

The Lawn Was White With Doctors