Nothing matters but the memories; I have nothing but the memories.

Time has no form.

To believe in something like van Gogh believed in God.

A character in Virginia Woolf's The Voyage Out wanted to write a book about silence. I want to write a book about the trees swaying in the wind.

I want to write like Marguerite Duras.

I'm a writer, but reading is my true love. Reading saves me.

Where is my father? What is he? Why can't he be alive?

My parents were my first love, my only love.

I can't be healed. I can't be saved.

I am failing.

The scene in Antichrist when Charlotte Gainsbourg dissolves into the grass--I long for that. I long for erasure.

I can't love. I can't be loved.

Hold me.

Crying in the car, telling my mother "It's done. His death can't be changed." She says "All you can do is cry."

This is not surviving.

In an email, a friend wrote that she and I "resist loss." It's true. I resist his death. I refuse to move on. It's like his death fills the hole he left--my obsession with him, this aching is what I hold on to because I can't hold him. It is destroying me. I am destroying myself.

Life spares no one.

In my writing, I want to express emotion and feeling; these things are, by nature, abstract, intangible, and unsayable. I want a language that is impossible, that does not exist.

I want few words. I want no words. I want the pen to be a blade, parring down language.

A blade of dying sunlight cuts through the trees.

How will we make this society just? Protests are an attempt at collective speech, a demand to be heard.

Clouds overspilling the sky.

The moon: a crack in the sky, the ooze of silver light, the underside of heaven.

I get more tender as I get older.

I can't go "back" and I can't go "forward." These spatial metaphors are useless. I am here in this moment and I am burning.

These memories burn away the skin of the present.

Life takes the life out of me.