You have lost all delight in life. Ahead is a large array of blind alleys. You are half-deliberately, half-desperately cutting off your grip on creative life. You are becoming a neuter machine. You cannot love, even if you knew how to begin to love. Every thought is a devil, a hell-if you could do a lot of things over again, ah, how differently you would do them! You want to go home, back to the womb. You watch the world bang door after door in your face, numbly, bitterly. You have forgotten the secret you knew, once, ah, once, of being joyous, of laughing, of opening doors.

I am silver and exact.I have no preconceptions.

Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

Not being perfect hurts.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.