No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself. - Virginia Woolf

There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.

When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?

I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on pavement.