Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

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

God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.

I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.

Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.