I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to. - Sylvia Plath

Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes travelling
Off from the centre like horses.

I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.

They understood things of the spirit in Japan. They disemboweled themselves when anything went wrong.