My body is all sentient. As I go here or there, I am tickled by this or that I come in contact with, as if I touched the wires of a battery.

For the first time I felt the pull of race and blood and kindred, and felt beating within me things that had not begun with me. It was as if the earth under my feet had grasped and rooted me, and were pouring its essence into me. I sat there until the dawn of morning, and all night long my life seemed to be pouring out of me and running into the ground.

In a cell like mine you very quickly become aware of your body. You can grow to hate your body. And your body is all you have: this was the curious thought that kept floating up through my rage.

My life is as if you've hit me with it.

I keep thinking about blood. I dream about it. Wake up thinking about it. Pretty soon I'll be writing morbid emo poetry about it.

I cut a hole in my heart and wrote with the blood.

My body was braille for the creeping influences.

I felt knowledge and the unity of the world circulate in me like my own blood.

But when he’s cut, I bleed.

And I was already on my way to being a true freak because I knew I would always choose to go where my blood beats, in any and all directions.

I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.

I am the vampire at my own veins.

The blues was bleeding the same blood as me.

i sometimes felt as if these marks on my body were a kind of code, which blossomed, then faded, like invisible ink held to a candle. But if they were a code, who held the key to it? I was sand, I was snow — written on, rewritten, smoothed over.