Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is

I Wonder Why I Don't Go To Bed And Go To Sleep. But Then It Would Be Tomorrow, So I Decide That No Matter How Tired, No Matter How Incoherent I Am, I Can Skip On Hour More Of Sleep And Live.

I Want To Become Acutely Aware Of All I've Taken For Granted.

The Blood Jet Is Poetry And There Is No Stopping It.

It Was Sometime In October; She Had Long Ago Lost Track Of All The Days And It Really Didn’t Matter Because One Was Like Another And There Were No Nights To Separate Them Because She Never Slept Any More.

I Felt Like A Racehorse In A World Without Racetracks.