I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.
I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one, And the white person is certainly the superior one. She doesn't need food, she is one of...
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am,...
I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
I collected men with interesting names.
I am still raw.I say I may be back.You know what lies are for.Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day, spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free. I want, I think, to be...
His lyrical whistle beckoned me to adventure and forgetting. But I didn't want to forget. Hugging my grudge, ugly and prickly, a sad sea urchin, I trudged off on my own, in the opposite direction towa...
Blameless as daylight I stood lookingAt a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,Tails streaming against the greenBackdrop of sycamores. Sun was strikingWhite chapel pinnacles over the roofs,Holding...
And I, stepping from this skinOf old bandages, boredoms, old facesStep to you from the black car of Lethe,Pure as a baby.
After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort or another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race.
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
A living doll, everywhere you look. It can sew, it can cook, It can talk, talk, talk. It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, its a poultice. You have an eye, its an image. My boy...
I fancied you'd return the way you said,But I grow old and I forget your name.(I think I made you up inside my head.)I should have loved a thunderbird instead;At least when spring comes they roar back...
Evde de karnımız doymuyor değildi ama büyükannem, pişirdiği ucuz et yemeklerinin daha ilk lokmasını ağzımıza götürürken, Umarım beğenirsiniz, şunun yarım kilosuna tam kırk bir sent verdim, deme alışka...
Dying is an art.Like everything else,I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I have a call.
Backward we traveled to reclaim the dayBefore we fell, like Icarus, undone;All we find are altars in decayAnd profane words scrawled black across the sun.--From the poem Doom of the Exiles, written 16...
And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.