I am devoured with restlessness and fever. I cannot be quiet. I am wildly dreaming of escape, voyages, love, wildly craving love.

Unable to enter my heart. I prefer my dreams.

I shall live on dreams because reality is too cruel for me. I think I shall be the kind of person that nobody understands.

I am in a good mood. I have washed my seashells to their pristine whiteness. I have started to dream profusely day and night. The blood is circulating again. I write in my head.

The soft water, the perfume, the warmth. I take on the colors of the flowers, the bloom, the delicacy. It becomes me.

This morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.

I was born without a skin. I dreamed once that I stood naked in a garden and that it was carefully and neatly peeled, like a fruit. Not an inch of skin left on my body. It was all gently pulled off, all of it, and then I was told to walk, to live, to run.

dreams which gave birth to worlds within worlds, which, begun at night when she was asleep, continued during the day as an accompaniment to acts which she now discovered were rendered ineffectual by this defensive activity, with time became more and more violent.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself.

I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort which I cannot make.