I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?