Don’t complain, don’t explain.
Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that.
I guess my writing has changed as my life has.
But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.
That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.