I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.

I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.

This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.

... only love begets love.

The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.

All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.

Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.