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

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

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