I am too pure for you or anyone.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

You have lost all delight in life. Ahead is a large array of blind alleys. You are half-deliberately, half-desperately cutting off your grip on creative life. You are becoming a neuter machine. You cannot love, even if you knew how to begin to love. Every thought is a devil, a hell-if you could do a lot of things over again, ah, how differently you would do them! You want to go home, back to the womb. You watch the world bang door after door in your face, numbly, bitterly. You have forgotten the secret you knew, once, ah, once, of being joyous, of laughing, of opening doors.

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.