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.

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

Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.

And what is happy? It is a going always on. There is something better to be done than I have done, and spurred by the fair delusion of progress, I will seek to progress, to whip myself on, to more and more- to learning. Always.