I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.

There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.