I kept staring into the blackness of the woods, drawn into the darkness as I always had been. I suddenly realized how alone I was. (But this is how you travel, the wind whispered back, this is how you've always lived.)

No one is drawn to writing about being happy or feelings of joy.

I feel like I'm not smart enough to answer the questions I'm asked.

The seeds of love have taken hold and if we won't burn together, I'll burn alone.

I feel I'm moving toward as well as away from something, and anything is possible.

I am gripped by an existential panic.

What keeps me interested--and it always does--is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality?