The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

Is there no way out of the mind?

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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