I saw all these people walking around in their bodies, playing with things, being angry, walking around, doing people things. I wonder if they see me in mine, or if I am too dragged into dream to really exist the way others do.

I just love everything too much, yet too little. I have become so honest, yet so deceitful at the same time, as though my confessions have removed me completely from the emotions themselves. I am tired of these Impressionist feelings, of impressions, I want to feel, feel, feel! Even sadness - I miss the honesty of tears, how one comes and then all of a sudden a whole torrent comes crashing. And laughter, cascading through the whole room, the whole house! Where has that gone?