I wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn’t seen as someone who could say something interesting about art. Now I have writing, but I also have too much of my own self. I had a husband and I left him I wonder how he is. In the afternoons there’s a spaciousness larger than I’ve ever wanted. The carriages driving close to my windows. If something flows through me, I think it is mine. When I went inside those shops, I was bored. People are walking in and out of the same four shops I know they haven’t bought anything good. The flames remind me of my future I’m afraid I might burn everything up. When I can’t get my thoughts down, I look at them. Out in the street, candles light every window. I THOUGHT THAT BEING in the country would help me write, with its fields and its horses, but I don’t think I was meant for that.
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