I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

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

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.