O love, how did you get here?

I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

How we need another soul to cling to.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

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.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.