When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.