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. For the country, or for help.

Out in the street, candles light every window. When I can't get my thoughts down, I look at them. The flames remind me of my future; I'm afraid I might burn everything up. People are walking in and out of the same four shops; I know they haven't bought anything good. When I went inside those shops, I was bored. I'm bored by this one street.

If something flows through me, I think it is mine. It is not mine. The carriages driving close to my windows.

It's strange being along again. In the afternoon there's a spaciousness larger that I've ever wanted. I had a husband and I left him; I wonder how he is. Now I have writing, but I also have too much of my own self. I am stalking my own soul.

I wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn't seen as someone who could say something interesting about art. I wasn't seen as someone who could say anything at all and then publish it. When I went with my husband to the museum, I felt I should be cleaning that place. I was used to that work and maybe it is my destiny. Before meeting my husband, I had mopped the floors of those galleries, over and over. I had scrubbed the walls until my palms were rough and dry.

I both liked and disliked going to work. When I was supposed to be cleaning, I would look out the windows of the museum, the paintings behind me reflected in the glass. It meant something to me to see myself with them. Never before had I thought paintings would be important.