Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.

Everything in life is writable.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.