Tomorrow is another day toward death.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence...luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.