The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

Your room is not your prison. You are.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.

If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!