There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

The more hopeless you were, the further away they hid you.

I’ll never speak to God again.

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.

The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.