I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

But they know. They all know. And what am I against so many…?

Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy & peaceful.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.