There is hope. There is hope everywhere.

I need very badly to be just me. I can’t live up to your romantic ideal of me.

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It is June. I am tired of being brave.

I am sometimes totally lost from the world.

I love you very much, all of you and with all my heart.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

To love another is something .like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall .into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent.with the awful order of things.

The world is full of them,.a world of beasts.thrusting for one rock.

My supply.of tablets.has got to last for years and years. I like them more than I like me. Stubborn as hell, they won’t let go. It's a kind of marriage. It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside.of myself. Yes.I try.to kill myself in small amounts,.an innocuous occupation.

I thought of you, suddenly, I had words that I wished to speak across the void. I say them with love.

Only my books anoint me, .and a few friends, .those who reach into my veins.

Your hand is the outrageous redeemer.

It's music you've never heard.that I've heard,.that makes me think of you.

Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.

January? .The month is dumb. It is fraudulent. It does not cleanse itself.

To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool. I will try it shortly.

Listen. We must all stop dying in the little ways,.in the craters of hate,.in the potholes of indifference-.a murder in the temple.

And I don’t know, don’t know, if we belong together or apart, except my soul lingers over the skin of you.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.