Maybe Forgetfulness, Like A Kind Snow, Should

I Am Sure There Are Things That Can't Be Cured By A Good Bath But I Can't Think Of One.

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

Do We Always Grind Through The Present, Doomed To Throw A Gold Haze Of Fond Retrospect Over The Past?

I Have Taken A Pill To Kill The Thin Papery Feeling.

Why The Hell Are We Conditioned Into The Smooth Strawberry-and-cream Mother-goose-world, Alice-in-wonderland Fable, Only To Be Broken On The Wheel As We Grow Older And Become Aware Of Ourselves As Individuals With A Dull Responsibility In Life?