I Write This Sitting In The Kitchen

And No Bathroom On Earth Will Make Up For Marrying A Bearded Man You Hate.

Only The Margin Left To Write On Now. I Love You, I Love You, I Love You.

Death Is Too Much To Ask Of The Living.

Everything In The Least Connected With Him Has Value For Me; If Someone Even Mentions His Name It Is Like A Little Present To Me-and I Long To Mention It Myself

Only Half A Page Left Now. Shall I Fill It With 'i Love You, I Love You'-- Like Father's Page Of Cats On The Mat? No. Even A Broken Heart Doesn't Warrant A Waste Of Good Paper.