If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.
At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber.
She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.