The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Sylvia Plath might be turning me into a glass-half-empty sort of girl.




I felt like a race horse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like a date on a tombstone.

And maybe giving me insomnia.