Day 339. I would rather get lost than take the same passage again and again. 

Day 333. The universe is the kiln, and we are Her clay. 

Day 332. I sleep with all limbs extended. Cast overboard. A drowning woman. Or a bird, soaring above the sealine.

Day 331. I write because it is the space between clinging and not caring. 

Day 330.

Day 329. I'd rather be alone with my desire.

Day 203. I’ve been telling all those I greet that it is My Year Of Simone Weil.

Day 202. Do you know what it’s like to hold the heart of the world on your tongue?

Day 201. I loved him so dearly at that moment. He left late because we made love again.

Day 200. The other group will be contrary for the sake of rebellion.

Day 199. Playful and precocious, I have not changed.

Day 198. As she absorbed the teardrops with the silk, she felt the man watching her.

Day 198. He was smiling just for the girl. Or, that is what the girl preferred to think

Day 197. She saw their forked tongues, red-red-red, and hissed back at them.

Day 196. When the girl opened her eyes, the park had blurred. All she could see were rings of gold.

Day 195. One sip. Set the cup down. Lean back. Relight the spliff. Pause. Repeat.

Day 194. The girl had wanted to lean across the counter and kiss his wet mouth.

Day 193. Like those little birds pecking seeds until they cracked—revealing nourishment.

Day 192. This is not a story. It has no beginning and no end.

Day 191. As she walks through midnight into the next day, she suffers the tragedy of knowing she can never look back.