I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.

Most of a modest woman's life was spent, after all, in denying what, in one day at least of every year, was made obvious.

To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.

To know whom to write for is to know how to write.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.