Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

Today life opened inside me like an egg.