I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you; which will always be.

But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.