How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.

The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.