I Didn't Know It Was Possible To

I Wish That I Could Love Someone So Much That I Would Die From It.

I've Written A Book About My Mother, And I Don't Remember Anyone Going To Antigua Or Calling Up My Mother And Verifying Her Life. There Is Something About This Book That Drives People Mad With The Autobiographical Question.

I Had Come To Feel That My Mother's Love For Me Was Designed Solely To Make Me Into An Echo Of Her; And I Didn't Know Why, But I Felt That I Would Rather Be Dead Than Become Just An Echo Of Someone.

In Isolation I Ruthlessly Plow The Deep Silences, Seeking My Opportunities Like A Miner Seeking Veins Of Treasures. In What Shallow Glimmering Space Shall I Find What Glimmering Glory?

There Are Things That Make Us Choose, On Certain Days, On Certain Nights, The Opposite Of Love, In All Its Variations. But I Want To Acknowledge That With Love And Hate It's Not Simply One Or The Other. It's At Least Two, Three, Four, Five Different Emotions Existing At Once, Side By Side, A Broad Spectrum Of Things Alive.