I'm Not Happy With Just Repeating Myself.

In My World Death Will Come Chasing. In Your World It Will Start Whispering In Your Ear To Destroy Yourself. I Know This Because It Started Whispering To Me When I Was In The Detention Center.

We Were Exiles From Reality That Summer. We Were Refugees From Ourselves.

On The Girl's Brown Legs There Were Many Small White Scars. I Was Thinking, Do Those Scars Cover The Whole Of You, Like The Stars And The Moons On Your Dress? I Thought That Would Be Pretty Too, And I Ask You Right Here Please To Agree With Me That A Scar Is Never Ugly. That Is What The Scar Makers Want Us To Think. But You And I, We Must Make An Agreement To Defy Them. We Must See All Scars As Beauty. Okay? This Will Be Our Secret. Because Take It From Me, A Scar Does Not Form On The Dying. A Scar Means, I Survived.

This Is The Forked Tongue Of Grief Again. It Whispers In One Ear: Return To What You Once Loved Best, And In The Other Ear It Whispers, Move On.

They Say That In The Hour Before An Earthquake The Clouds Hang Leaden In The Sky, The Winds Slows To A Hot Breath, And The Birds Fall Quiet In The Trees Of The Town Square. Yes But These Are The Same Portents That Precede Lunchtime, Frankly.