The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.

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?

Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.

I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.