It's not good to live so much inside oneself. It's a self-imposed exile, really. It makes you different.

It has always been on the written page that the world has come into focus for me. If I can piece all these bits of memory together with the diaries and letters and the scribbled thoughts that clutter my mind and bookshelves, then maybe I can explain what happened. Maybe the worlds I have inhabited for the past seven years will assume order and logic and wholeness on paper. Maybe I can tell my story in a way that is useful to someone else.

Don't you see what's happened? You wanted to be in love again. To feel that feeling where a man you hardly know gazes into your eyes and seems to be the only human being who ever understood the real you.

What did a person need to survive? Food. Water. Shelter. Warmth in cold weather. And something else... books.

It's not good to live so much inside oneself. It's a self-imposed exile, really. It makes you different.

I love you so much. I love you enough that I want to stay separate from you. You're an extraordinary man, Frank Wright. I could so easily lose myself in your world and never make a world of my own. And where would that leave us? We'd both be bored stupid.

It's wonderful to feel desired. There's a sense of power in it, really.