If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.

How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?

I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.

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.