I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.

Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.