That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.

If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.