I Have Given Up Considering Happiness As

The Suicide, As She Is Falling, Illuminated By The Moon, Regrets Her Act, And Finds Appalling The Thought She Will Be Dead So Soon.

I Really Think I Write About Everyday Life. I Don't Think I'm Quite As Odd As Others Say I Am.

This Is The Theory… That Anything That Is Art… Is Presumably About Some Certain Thing, But Is Really Always About Something Else, And It’s No Good Having One Without The Other, Because If You Just Have The Something It Is Boring And If You Just Have The Something Else It’s Irritating.

I Thought I'd Be A Librarian Until I Met Some Crazy Ones.

I Don't Think Anything Might Have Been. What Is, Is.