So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

Is anyone anywhere happy?