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

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.