I do not know who I am tonight.

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

How many different deaths I can die?

I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.