Theirs was the eternal youth of an alternating self, a youth with the constant although unfulfilled promise of growing up
She'd abandoned the animal she loved as she herself had been abandoned repeatedly in the past by people who had claimed to love her.
It all made sense — terrible sense. The panic she had experienced in the warehouse district because of not knowing what had happened had been superseded at the newsstand by the even greater panic of partial knowledge. And now the torment of partly ...
The neurologist had dismissed her case after a single visit, handing out an easy nostrum by telling her father that if she continued to write poetry, she would be all right.
Isolated, she managed somehow to feel free—albeit with a freedom that made her want to smash a hole in the very center of the universe.
You're never ready for what you have to do. You just do it. That makes you ready.
There is no past. Past is present when you carry it with you.
