Oh You Know Me. I Have No

If You're My Friend I Should Be Able To Talk To You But I Can't, And If I Can't Talk To You, Well, What Is The Point Of You? Of Us?

Occasionally, Very Occasionally, Say At Four O’clock In The Afternoon On A Wet Sunday, She Feels Panic-stricken And Almost Breathless With Loneliness. Once Or Twice She Has Been Known To Pick Up The Phone To Check That It Isn’t Broken. Sometimes She Thinks How Nice It Would Be To Be Woken By A Call In The Night: ‘get In A Taxi Now’ Or ‘i Need To See You, We Need To Talk’. But At The Best Of Times She Feels Like A Character In A Muriel Spark Novel – Independent, Bookish, Sharp-minded, Secretly Romantic.

Letters, Like Compilation Tapes, Were Really Vehicles For Unexpressed Emotions And She Was Clearly Putting Far Too Much Time And Energy Into Them.

I Am Not Up To This. I Am Not Capable. I Thought I Would Be, But I'm Not. Some Part Of Me Is Missing, And I Cannot Do This.

…surprised All Over Again At How Very Comforting Very Bad Food Can Be.