I have long since decided if you wait for the perfect time to write, you'll never write. There is no time that isn't flawed somehow.

Things might have been different if she hadn't been able to drift; if she'd had to concentrate on her next meal, instead of dwelling on all the injuries she felt we'd done her. An unearned income encourages self-pity in those already prone to it.

You can pretty much trace when the big individual indebtedness kicked in, and it was when the credit card became generally available.

I wish this story were different. I wish it were more civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, than at least more active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish t were about love, or about sudden realizations important to one’s life, or even about sunsets, birds, rainstorms, or snow. I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story. I’m sorry it’s in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pulled apart by force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.

I exist in two places, here and where you are.

He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.

The past is a closed door.