I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.

There was a beautiful time.

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

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

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

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor or pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.