As an artist, you can never get what you want. What you do never approaches what you want it to be.

Whenever she thought she could not feel more alone, the universe peeled back another layer of darkness.

So much wanting and longing, clutching, desiring, passion and hatred and terrible need. Here, death was suitable, there was room for it, the grip of life's relentless urges slackened, replaced by this icy simplicity. This wasnt her death. It was his. That was the sad and honest truth. Though it would stay with her, it would be more like a black onyx heart on a silver chain, worn privately, under her clothes, close to her body, all her life. The guilt, the beauty, everything. It wasnt over, it had only begun. Well ok then, Okay.

You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.

Depression, suffering and anger are all part of being human.