If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.
Something came out from my heart into my throat and then into my eyes.
I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.
I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail ghosts in my room.
Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.