Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

I hurl my heart to halt his pace.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.