What is so real as the cry of a child?
I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.