Is There No Way Out Of The

Writing, Then, Was A Substitute For Myself: If You Don't Love Me, Love My Writing & Love Me For My Writing. It Is Also Much More: A Way Of Ordering And Reordering The Chaos Of Experience.

I Didn't Really See Why People Should Look At Me. Plenty Of People Looked Queerer Than I Did.

I Knew You'd Decide To Be All Right Again.

God, How I Ricochet Between Certainties And Doubts.

Feel Oddly Barren. My Sickness Is When Words Draw In Their Horns And The Physical World Refuses To Be Ordered, Recreated, Arranged And Selected. I Am A Victim Of It Then, Not A Master.