But That Isn't My Life. I Have

I Don't Fear Death. I'm Not Obsessed With It The Way Everybody Else Seems To Be.

I'm Tired Of My Life, My Clothes, The Things I Say. I'm Hacking Away At The Surface, As At Some Kind Of Gray Ice, Trying To Break Through To What Is Underneath Or I Am Dead. I Can Feel The Surface Trembling—it Seems Ready To Give But It Never Does. I Am Uninterested In Current Events. How Can I Justify This? How Can I Explain It? I Don't Want To Have The Same Vocabulary I've Always Had. I Want Something Richer, Broader, More Penetrating And Powerful.

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.

Dresscodes Are For Styleless People.

Not Necessarily Narrow So Much As Impatient, Intense.