And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.