I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.

I do not know who I am tonight.

If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time.

I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.