Writers are always anxious, always on the run-from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.
Writing
That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.
The words ran away with me.
Writing, Words
Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.
Love, Romance
Money talks, but tell me why all it says is just Goodbye.
Money, Goodbye