I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.

I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.