I Hoard Books. They Are People Who

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

Come, My Pretender, My Fritter, My Bubbler, My Chicken Biddy! Oh Succulent One, It Is But One Turn In The Road And I Would Be A Cannibal!

Letters Are False Really - They Are Expressions Of The Way You Wish You Were Instead Of The Way You Are.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.