I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

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

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

I used to pray to recover you.

I am what I feel and think and do.