With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you; which will always be.

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.

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

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.