Tomorrow is another day toward death.

I am made, crudely, for success.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

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

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.