Marie is hostile and angry at me and saying rude terrible
things. I feel like an abandoned mama. I miss the smell of
a man's sweat -- that particular sweat of a particular man
that grabs at my insides and makes me swoon. I miss my
mama. I leave for D.C. early in the morning for two
interviews. I did my nails. But I don't feel pretty. I
want to bury myself in work and let these old musty texts
take me to far off places hundreds and hundreds of years
before here and now. I am desperate for a vision of the
Virgin Mary. I am not a saint, but a ***** so I do not wait
with baited breath. . . I yearn for laughter.

Eight months since I wrote the devil. The temptation comes
when I feel desperate for sanctuary. I am going to sleep
soon. I am going to cry