And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers,

The Unendurable Is The Beginning Of The Curve Of Joy.

Sleep Demands Of Us A Guilty Immunity.

New York Rose Out Of The Water Like A Great Wave That Found It Impossible To Return Again And So Remained There In Horror, Peering Out Of The Million Windows Man Had Caged It With.

To Think Is To Be Sick.

One Must Not Look Inward Too Much, While The Inside Is Yet Tender. I Do Not Wish To Frighten Myself Until I Can Stand It.