Sylvia Plath

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Character is fate.

Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's
begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

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

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.

The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.