Life Is A Publicity Stunt. A Shill.

A Revolution Is Not The Overturning Of A Cart, A Reshuffling In The Cards Of State. It Is A Process, A Swelling, A New Growth In The Race. If It Is Real, Not Simply A Trauma, It Is Another Ring In The Tree Of History, Layer Upon Layer Of Invisible Tissue Composing The Evidence Of A Circle.

Perhaps Nothing Is So Depressing An Index Of The Inhumanity Of The Male-supremacist Mentality As The Fact That The More Genial Human Traits Are Assigned To The Underclass: Affection, Response To Sympathy, Kindness, Cheerfulness.

You May Well Ask How I Expect To Assert My Privacy By Resorting To The Outrageous Publicity Of Being One's Actual Self On Paper. There's A Possibility Of It Working If One Chooses The Terms, To Wit: Outshouting Image-gimmick America Through A Quietly Desperate Search For Self.

My Sister Said, You're Making It Hard For All Us Housewives In Nebraska.

I Saw Hell. The Hospital Had Divided And Conquered Pretty Successfully.