God, How I Still Love Private Readers.

I'm Sick Of Just Liking People. I Wish To God I Could Meet Somebody I Could Respect.

I’m Not Going To Bed After All. Somebody Around Here Hath Murdered Sleep. Good For Him.

I Mean How Do You Know What You're Going To Do Till You Do It? The Answer Is, You Don't. I Think I Am, But How Do I Know? I Swear It's A Stupid Question.

The True Poet Has No Choice Of Material. The Material Plainly Chooses Him, Not He It.

I Have Scars On My Hands From Touching Certain People.