Adulthood Is Not An Age, But A

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.

The More Abhorrent A News Item The More Comforting It Was To Be The Recipient, Since The Fact That It Had Happened Elsewhere Proved That It Had Not Happened Here, Was Not Happening Here, And Would Therefore Never Happen Here.

Only One Same Reason Is Shared By All Of Us: We Wish To Create Worlds As Real As, But Other Than The World That Is. Or Was. This Is Why We Cannot Plan. We Know A World Is An Organism, Not A Machine. We Also Know That A Genuinely Created World Must Be Independent Of Its Creator; A Planned World (a World That Fully Reveals Its Planning) Is A Dead World. It Is Only When Our Characters And Events Begin To Disobey Us That They Begin To Live.

The Diary Will Really Try And Tell People Who You Are And What You Were. The Alternative Is Writing Nothing, Or Creating A Totally Lifeless, As It Is Leafless, Garden.

That Was The Tragedy. Not That One Man Had The Courage To Be Evil. But That Millions Had Not The Courage To Be Good.