I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

If Doctor Nolan asked me for the matches, I would say that I'd thought they were made of candy and had eaten them.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber.

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.