She Is Not A Writer At All,

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

It's The World, You Live In It, Even If Some Boy Has Made A Fool Of You.

We’d Hoped For Love Of A Different Kind, Love That Knew And Forgave Our Human Frailty But Did Not Miniaturize Our Grander Ideas Of Ourselves.

The Lives Great Artists Live And The Books They Write Are Two Very Different Things.

Sure, Go Ahead, Simulate Life, Using Only Ink And Paper.