My Hole Is Warm And Full Of

I Blundered Into Writing.

Injustice Wears Ever The Same Harsh Face Wherever It Shows Itself.

And I Knew That It Was Better To Live Out One's Absurdity Than To Die For That Of Others.

The Act Of Writing Requires A Constant Plunging Back Into The Shadow Of The Past Where Time Hovers Ghostlike.

Light Confirms My Reality, Gives Birth To My Form...without Light I Am Not Only Invisible But Formless As Well; And To Be Unaware Of One's Form Is To Live A Death...the Truth Is The Light And Light Is The Truth.