I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

I don't know how long I kept at it... I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?