I Love The Abstract, Delicate,

Shame Is The Lie Someone Told You About Yourself.

I Stopped Loving My Father A Long Time Ago. What Remained Was The Slavery To A Pattern.

I Walk Ahead Of Myself In Perpetual Expectancy Of Miracles.

Idealism Is The Death Of The Body And The Imagination. All But Freedom, Utter Freedom, Is Death

I Disregard The Proportions, The Measures, The Tempo Of The Ordinary World. I Refuse To Live In The Ordinary World As Ordinary Women. To Enter Ordinary Relationships. I Want Ecstasy. I Am A Neurotic — In The Sense That I Live In My World. I Will Not Adjust Myself To The World. I Am Adjusted To Myself.