遥远的向日葵地

眼下世界里，青草顶天而生，爬虫昼追日，夜逐月。风是透明的河流，雨是冰凉的流星。

又寂寞又美好

我将自己种进花盆假装是一朵花城市巷弄阴暗阳光终日短缺雨水不足空气浑浊只有在午夜三时才能瞥见月亮默默滑过天空我是一朵不开花的花尚未学会绽放，就已习于凋零。

万人如海一身藏

我与深渊相逢，而我活了下来。

自深深处

You admired my work when it was finished: you enjoyed the brilliant successes of my first nights, and the brilliant banquets that followed them: you were proud, and quite naturally so, of being the intimate friend of an artist so distinguished: but you could not understand the conditions requisite for the production of artistic work. I am not speaking in phrases of rhetorical exaggeration but in terms of absolute truth to actual fact when I remind you that during the whole time we were together I never wrote one single line. Whether at Torquay, Goring, London, Florence or elsewhere, my life, as long as you were by my side, was entirely sterile and uncreative. And with but few intervals you were, I regret to say, by my side always.