What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been "analyzed." Instead, all I could see were question marks.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate; and damn, I'd better work on my character. I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer to NOT feel, NOT to let the world touch one.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.