O Love, How Did You Get Here?

And I, Love, Am A Pathological Liar.

I Must Not Be Selfless: Develop A Sense Of Self. A Solidness That Can't Be Attacked.

I Think My Poems Immediately Come Out Of The Sensuous And Emotional Experiences I Have, But I Must Say I Cannot Sympathise With These Cries From The Heart That Are Informed By Nothing Except A Needle Or A Knife, Or Whatever It Is.

If There's Anything I Look Down On, It's A Man In A Blue Outfit.

What Is My Life For And What Am I Going To Do With It? I Don't Know And I'm Afraid. I Can Never Read All The Books I Want; I Can Never Be All The People I Want And Live All The Lives I Want.