Dying is so simple. A fleeting moment of suffering. In the blink of an eye you are over the threshold, into another world. No more pain, no more fears. You sleep so well there. Dying is like rubbing snow together, setting fire to a whole winter of cold and ice.

The moon in all her immaculate purity hung in the sky, laughing at this world of dust. She congratulated me for my carefully considered maneuvers and invited me to share in her eternal solitude.

Heroes are damned. No mortal conquers Death.

I talk to trees and animals. We have interesting conversations about food, weather, and love. They sometimes can predict the future.

I splash my head with ice-cold water and turn to face the mirror. When my image appears I instinctively look away. Is there a truth on the other side that we do not want to see?

To other women the choice of clothes was a form of ingenious exhibition, a shameless seduction. To me, dresses were like a breastplate that I put on to set off to war against this life.

I have written too much about lives - I feel I have lived for too long.