You Smile. No, It Is Not Fatal.

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

The Blood Jet Is Poetry And There Is No Stopping It.

I Feel, Am Mad As Any Writer Must In One Way Be; Why Not Make It Real? I Am Too Close To The Bourgeois Society Of Suburbia: Too Close To People I Know I Must Sever My Self From Them, Or Be A Part Of Their World: This Half And Half Compromise Is Intolerable.

I Have Been Holding A Dialogue With Myself And Girding Myself To Stand Fast Without Running.

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.