Life Is A Publicity Stunt. A Shill.

One Of The Blessings Of Adulthood Is That One Is No Longer Addressed As A Thing.

During Depression The World Disappears. Language Itself. One Has Nothing To Say. Nothing. No Small Talk, No Anecdotes. Nothing Can Be Risked On The Board Of Talk. Because The Inner Voice Is So Urgent In Its Own Discourse: How Shall I Live? How Shall I Manage The Future? Why Should I Go On?

I Believe There's A Killer In All Of Us. I Know There's One Inside Me. When You Know The Killer In You And You Know Also That You Do Not Want To Kill, You Have To Set Yourself Upon A Course Of Learning. Not To Kill That Killer Then, But To Control It.

Let Us Stop Being Afraid. Of Our Own Thoughts, Our Own Minds. Of Madness, Our Own Or Others'. Stop Being Afraid Of The Mind Itself, Its Astonishing Functions And Fandangos, Its Complications And Simplifications, The Wonderful Operation Of Its Machinery--more Wonderful Because It Is Not Machinery At All Or Predictable.

I'm Slammed With An Identity That Can No Longer Say A Word; Mute With Responsibility.