"By November, you wish
you were dead. You want nothing more. Every day, every fucking day, you
run up the steps of the house, breathing hard, swing open the
cupboards, thinking: You pitiful little bitch. Fucking cow. Greedy pig.
All day, your stomach pinches and spits up its bile. You sway when you
walk. You begin to get cold again."
[Marya Hornbacher]
❤
❤
[Clarice Lispector]