Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.

If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.