How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.

I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.

And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

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

I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.