I Am Tired. My Arm

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

I Love My Work But Do Not Know How I Write It.

These Critics Who Crucify Me Do Not Guess The Littlest Part Of My Sincerity. They Must Be Burned In A Blaze. I Cannot Learn From Them.

Love Grows More Tremendously Full, Swift, Poignant, As The Years Multiply.