If I Am An Angel, Paint Me

I Love The One Who Punishes Me Well.

So We Reach Into The Raging Chaos, And We Cling To It, And We Tell Ourselves It Has Meaning, And That The World Is Good, And We Are Not Evil, And We Will All Go Home In The End.

There Was No Point In Waiting Until The Next World. You Had To Do Everything Now, Every Kind Of Sin.

Suppose Death Had A Heart To Love And To Release You, To Whom Would He Turn This Passion, Would You Chose A Person From The Crowd There. A Person To Suffer As You Suffer.

In The Spring Of 1988, I Returned To New Orleans, And As Soon As I Smelled The Air, I Knew I Was Home. It Was Rich, Almost Sweet, Like The Scent Of Jasmine And Roses Around Our Old Courtyard. I Walked The Streets, Savoring That Long Lost Perfume.