I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.

You smile. No, it is not fatal.