I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been "analyzed." Instead, all I could see were question marks.