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

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.

Why honey, don't you want to get dressed?" My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon." I'm writing a novel," I said. "I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.