No One Pays Attention To These Killings,

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

Literature + Illness = Illness

Poetry Is The One Thing That Isn't Contaminated, The One Thing That Isn't Part Of The Game.

What Twisted People We Are. How Simple We Seem, Or At Least Pretend To Be In Front Of Others, And How Twisted We Are Deep Down. How Paltry We Are And How Spectacularly We Contort Ourselves Before Our Own Eyes, And The Eyes Of Others...and All For What? To Hide What? To Make People Believe What?