One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.

[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.