The Girl Has A Funny Way Of

Any Place, Then, Can Become A Cemetery. All It Takes Is Your Body. It's Not Fair, I Think, And I Get This Petulant Wish For Ugly Flowers And Mourners, My Mother's Old Familiar Grief. Somebody I Love To Tend My Future Grave. Probably This Is The Wrong Thing To Be Wishing For.

In A Way, I Think We All Want To Look To That Journalistic Voice As A Kind Of Global Omniscience, A Big Eye To Correct For Our Own Limited Purview: "here's A Realistic Accounting Of The World In Which We Live."

No, I Don’t Have To Tell A Soul About This, I Promised Myself. When You Are A Kid, You Don’t Know Yet That A Secret, Like An Animal, Can Evolve. Like An Animal, A Secret Can Develop A Self-preserving Intelligence. Shaglike, Mute And Thick, A Knowledge With A Fur: Your Secret.

I Swim With All My Strength. No Superhuman Surge, Or Pony Heroics; It's Just Me At My Most Desperate.

What Passes For News Is Just Morbid Speculation Or Cartoonish Screaming, Followed By Diaper Commercials.