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I’ll never speak to God again.

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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

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Dying is an art.Like everything else,I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I have a ...more

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LADY LAZARUSI have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it--A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right footA paperwe...more

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My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, ...more

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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen teleph...more

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Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and...more

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I told him I believed in hell, and that certain people, like me, had to live in hell before they died, to make up for missing out on it after death, s...more

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The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of storeys, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

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Not easy to state the change you made.If I'm alive now, I was dead,Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wantedTo lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.How free it is, you have no idea how free——The peacefulnes...more

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The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of starsLetting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhi...more

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The human mind is so limited it can only build an arbitrary heaven — and usually the physical comforts they endow it with are naively the kind that ca...more