I started writing in a desperate need to save myself. Then just as I was unable to continue, I find myself too in a state of destitution. Hollow verbs, these are. Better to kill little by little, to die a slow death, than living your power-driven life.

I turned on the radio and some assistant professor proclaimed a discovery of Anne Sexton’s four unpublished poems. How strange it was, to meet her name again on NPR, in my bathroom. I thought she belonged to only to those winter nights.

Better not to say anything, and breath out your unspoken words in vapor.