Planning To Write Is Not Writing.

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

Most People Are Quiet In The World, And Live In It Tentatively, As If It Were Not Their Own.

Longing, The Hope For Fulfillment, Is The One Unwavering Passion Of The World's Commerce.

I Am Telling You What I Know—words Have Music And If You Are A Musician You Will Write To Hear Them.

Dad Is Always Hiding In His Book.