Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.

Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

A woman who writes feels too much.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.