Gotta head full of ideas that are driving me insane...

What greater flood can there be than the flood of ideas? How quickly they submerge all that they set out to destroy, how rapidly do they create terrifying depths?

I'm just thinking too fast — much too fast.

What is mind? A heap of thoughts.

Theirs, too, is the word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

KING: I am full of thoughts,
A thousand wheels toss my incertain fears,
There is a storm in my hot boiling brains,
Which rises without wind. A horrid one.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

I'm interested in having fun with ideas, throwing them up in the air like confetti and then running under them.

The thoughts converged there from all realms. Ad each thought had infinite possibilities. He could have dwelled in any single one of those magical thoughts for a lifetime and to realised its full potential.

I discuss with myself questions of politics, love, taste, or philosophy. I let my mind rove wantonly, give it free rein to follow any idea, wise or mad that may present itself. … My ideas are my harlots.

There is no doubt that I have lots of words inside me; but at moments, like rush-hour traffic at the mouth of a tunnel, they jam.

Think of the mind as a river: the faster it flows, the better it keeps up with the present and responds to change. The faster it flows, also the more it refreshes itself and the greater its energy. Obsessional thoughts, past experiences (whether traumas or
successes), and preconceived notions are like boulders or mud in this river, settling and hardening
there and damming it up. The river stops moving; stagnation sets in. You must wage constant war on this tendency in the mind.

He tells me that for the past few years my mind has been a swamp- stagnant, fetid, seeping in every direction. Now it's time for my mind to be a river- raging, channeled, and therefore pure. p280

The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark — now glittering — now reflecting gloom — Now lending splendour, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings.