We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

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

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image.

Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.

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?

I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.