Love Begets Love. This Torment Is My

I Bleed My Bones, Their Marrow To Bestowupon That God Who Knows What I Would Know.

May My Silences Become More Accurate.

When I Go Mad, I Call My Friends By Phone: I Am Afraid They Might Think They're Alone.

Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And Death.

And I Rejoiced In Being What I Was.