I wish there was someone I could have written to after that, someone I could have written to explain how awful it was to have someone touch you, then look at you properly and change his mind.

Because things grow. Wherever there is air and light and open space, things grow.

It occurred to me that I was unhappy. And it didn’t feel so very terrible. No urgency, nothing. I could slip out of my life on a slow wave like this—it didn’t matter. I don’t have to be happy. All I have to do is hold on to something and wait.

I do tend to feel more connected to dead writers, perhaps because they have finished their work.

Would that be dangerous, to not look while being looked at?

Nobody ever warned me about mirrors, so for many years I was fond of them, and believed them to be trustworthy. . .

Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.