I really am only one infinitely small part of an aching humanity.

Sometimes fantasies are better than life.

I'm not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I've gotten from books.

I'm afraid to live and afraid to die.

I can't believe that I changed so little. I expected to look old and hollow and gray, but I guess it's only me on the inside that has shriveled and deteriorated.

Nobody's talking to me, but nobody's hassling me either. I guess you can't have everything.

They have accepted me as an individual, as a personality, as an entity. I belong! I am important! I am somebody!