…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

I used to pray to recover you.

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

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

I’ll never speak to God again.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.