All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.