There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road. — Sylvia Plath

How did I know that someday — at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere — the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.