The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain. — Sylvia Plath

I am made, crudely, for success.

The abstract kills, the concrete saves.

Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.