Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

...it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses.
"Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.