At The Heart Of Any Terror Is

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.

Make No Mistake, Those Who Write Long Books Have Nothing To Say. Of Course Those Who Write Short Books Have Even Less To Say.

People Frequently Comment On The Emptiness In One Night Stands, But Emptiness Here Has Always Been Just Another Word For Darkness. Blind Encounters Writing Sonnets No One Can Ever Read. Desire And Pain Communicated In The Vague Language Of Sex. None Of Which Made Sense To Me Until Much Later When I Realized Everything I Thought I'd Retained Of My Encounters Added Up To So Very Little, Hardly Enduring, Just Shadows Of Love Outlining Nothing At All.

Anger Is One Way To Respond To Fear. I Say One Way Because Responses Are Categorically Multiple.

Scars Are The Paler Pain Of Survival Received Unwillingly And Displayed In The Language Of Injury.