Feelin' Massachusetts is a mistake.

They’re fucking gross, man. Look, I love beautiful girls too. I think everyone should be free to have their knee socks and their sweaty shorts, but I’m over it. I’m over this weird, exhausted girl. I’m over the girl that’s tired and freezing and hungry. I like bossy girls, I always have. I like people filled with life. I’m over this weird media thing with all this, like, hollow-eyed, empty, party crap.

You have to work a lot at the language, because the language is the music of the piece. To try and find the right rhythms for that is the key. Sometimes the more dramatic the line, the flatter you would play it, but not always. When I watched Orson Welles, he’s like “Jane, Jaaaaaane” and all these crazy faces.

There I was, tall, light haired, in a kelly-green coat, a full black taffeta skirt. We passed through the Common to the Public Garden. The lights made the city bright with a strange, artificial dawn. We stopped on the stone bridge and leaned against the cold green metal railing. In the pond, the lights were reflected against the feathery dark of the weeping willows. The empty swan boats drifted idly to and fro on the black glass of the water, and yellow leaves were strewn over the surface like confetti on a marble top after a party. I stood there, complete in myself: whole, we talked, and I said what I thought.

The Journals of Sylvia Plath.

Speaking of mocking, today I was that girl. You know, the one reading Plath’s journals in Boston Common, retracing her steps.