Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

And I don’t know, don’t know, if we belong together or apart, except my soul lingers over the skin of you.

Listen. We must all stop dying in the little ways, in the craters of hate, in the potholes of indifference- a murder in the temple.

To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool. I will try it shortly.

January? The month is dumb. It is fraudulent. It does not cleanse itself.

Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.

It's music you've never heard that I've heard, that makes me think of you

Your hand is the outrageous redeemer.

Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.

I thought of you, suddenly, I had words that I wished to speak across the void. I say them with love. . .

My supply of tablets has got to last for years and years. I like them more than I like me. Stubborn as hell, they won’t let go. It's a kind of marriage. It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside of myself. Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation.

The world is full of them, a world of beasts thrusting for one rock.

My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things.

To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

I love you very much, all of you and with all my heart.

I am sometimes totally lost from the world.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

I need very badly to be just me. I can’t live up to your romantic ideal of me.

There is hope. There is hope everywhere.