Tomorrow Exists Even Though I May Not

I Would Be Lost Without The Feeling Of Antagonism That People Have Towards Me. I Write Out Of Defiance.

He Must Have Smiled At Me, Though I Don't Really Know, But I Don't Like To Think That I Would Love Someone Who Hadn't First Smiled At Me.

The Shadow Of My Mother Danced Around The Room To A Tune That My Own Shadow Sang.

All Of These Declarations Of What Writing Ought To Be, Which I Had Myself-though, Thank God I Had Never Committed Them To Paper-i Think Are Nonsense. You Write What You Write, And Then Either It Holds Up Or It Doesn't Hold Up. There Are No Rules Or Particular Sensibilities. I Don't Believe In That At All Anymore.

Why Is A Picture Of Something Real Eventually More Exciting Than The Thing Itself?