I burn the way money burns.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.