“And so I’m not keeping one bit of this quiet,I’m laying it all out on the table;my complaining to high heaven is bitter, but honest.Are you going to put a muzzle on me,the way you quiet the sea and still the storm?If I say, ‘I’m going to bed, then I’ll feel better.A little nap will lift my spirits,’You come and so scare me with nightmaresand frighten me with ghostsThat I’d rather strangle in the bedclothesthan face this kind of life any longer.I hate this life! Who needs any more of this?Let me alone! There’s nothing to my life—it’s nothingbut smoke.