If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you; which will always be.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself "the girl who wanted to be God." Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.

I woke to the sound of rain.