If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.
Death may whiten in sun or out of it.
If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
I think I am mad sometimes.
I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more