I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more

I said: I must remember this, being small.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.