"Eventually you are alone. In love or out of love. In celebration or in criticism. Life is all about solitude"
"Nobody cares about my work. Not even the cat"
"I was lucky to meet friends who loved life as much as I did"
Theres rambling, but thats all I can make out.
If i squeeze some sections together, I get blue cellulite.
She lived and spent, extravagently, grandly and generously. She laughed lots and hated criticism. She walked away continually. Her friends loved her truly. She lived with men and women. In her big houses like communes. She was a walking revolution. Simultaneously so strong and so vulnerable.
She sits in bed with a bottle of whiskey, blankets everywhere, pens everywhere, mess. Or at a table and typewriter in an overstuffed room of papers, curtains, furniture. Disarray. A glass of white whine on her manuscript. The room is a-shambles but it is clean and filled with light.
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