Life Is Hell, But At Least There

When I First Began This Diary I Said I Would Give A Record Of My Inner Life. I Begin To Wonder If I Have Said Anything About My Inner Life. What If I Have No Inner Life?

I Have Always Disliked The Morning, It Is Too Responsible A Time, With The Daylight Demanding That It Be 'faced' And (usually When I Wake For I Wake Late) With The Sun Already Up And In Charge Of The World, With Little Hope Of Anyone Usurping Or Challenging Its Authority. A Shot Of Light In The Face Of A Poor Waking Human Being And Another Slave Limps Wounded Into The Light-occupied Territory.

I Am Not Really A Writer. I Am Just Someone Who Is Haunted, And I Will Write The Hauntings Down.

Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence; Language May Be Almost As Effective.

All Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.