The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.