I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow.

They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.