Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

You smile. No, it is not fatal.

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

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

The reason I haven't been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven't had one decent coherent thought to put down.