There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

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

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

Like a cat I have nine times to die.