Intoxicated with madness, I'm in love with my sadness

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor or pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.

Character is fate.

I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.