you know things are strange when you open up sylvia plath's unabridged journals and see photocopies of the actual journals, and you notice that she even has a similar handwriting as you do.

"some girl a hundred years ago once lived as i do. and she is dead. i am the present, but i know i, too, will pass. the high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. and i don't want to die."