I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

I'm never going to get married." "You're crazy." Buddy brightened. "You'll change your mind." "No. My mind's made up.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

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