I Could Marry The Devil Himself If

I Was Wandering Around As Usual, In My Unpleasantly Populated Sub-conscious.

I Think It [religion] Is An Art, The Greatest One; An Extension Of The Communion All The Other Arts Attempt.

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.

Just To Be In Love Seemed The Most Blissful Luxury I Had Ever Known. The Thought Came To Me That Perhaps It Is The Loving That Counts, Not The Being Loved In Return -- That Perhaps True Loving Can Never Know Anything But Happiness. For A Moment I Felt That I Had Discovered A Great Truth.

I Wanted So Terribly To Be Good To Him.