Last night I wandered through Barnes and Noble for a long hour. I tried to imagine my body being pulled toward the books I needed most. I always ended up in the dream, self-help and poetry areas. I sat cross-legged on the stiff carpet and read Sylvia Plath. The Ariel collection all the way through in one sitting. There's something about knowing she wrote these poems in the months before she killed herself. I always think about Ted Hughes. And bees. And all these magnificent words left in journals and poems. The unraveling of a life. Do we all have a destiny? Is there a path? Can people break us all the way in two?