I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.