Please let him come, and give me the resilience & guts to make him respect me, be interested, and not to throw myself at him with loudness or hysterical yelling; calmly, gently, easy baby easy. He is probably strutting the backs among crocuses now with seven Scandinavian mistresses. And I sit, spiderlike, waiting, here, home; Penelope weaving webs of Webster, turning spindles of Tourneur. Oh, he is here; my black marauder; oh hungry hungry. I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait; and he plays on the banks of the river Cam like a casual faun.

Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

How many different deaths I can die?

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

That is salvation. To give of love inside. To keep love of life, no matter what, and give to others. Generously.

I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.

The future is what matters — because one never reaches it, but always stays in the present — like the White Queen who had to run like the wind to remain in the same spot.