I Have Never Waited For Anything The

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

That She Had So Completely Recovered Her Sanity Was A Source Of Sadness To Her. One Should Never Be Cured Of One's Passion.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

It's Afterwards You Realize That The Feeling Of Happiness You Had With A Man Didn't Necessarily Prove That You Loved Him.

The Words Emerge From Her Body Without Her Realizing It, As If She Were Being Visited By The Memory Of A Language Long Forsaken.