I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

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

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.