Please don’t ever expect me to always be compassionate and kind and loving, I am unbearably unhappy, is anyone happy? I am sick and spiteful, there is nothing better than a warm bath with oatmeal, there are times when I will be callous, cold and thoughtless and difficult to grieve with, I'm sorry for this, I am never forgiven for my flaws and faults and all the things that I do wrong, I hate everything and I don't know why, I don't know what lives in place of me, only that it's a living thing, it's cruel and ugly, it's meanness, it lives in the weak and the wounded, it lives in me in place of me. I have daydreams and nightmares, a fat purple fig, a cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling, a hammer and a chisel, cutlery, Moldovan wine and a small white napkin on a fancy marble table, a pristine breeze and all of Georgia, the white pines and sacred birch. I want so unmistakably, so desperately wildly, and HORRIFICALLY to be loved, and to be capable of love, and all I have is a world of paper.