The Place I Live In Is A

I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do Not Own.

Death's In The Good-bye.

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

Give Me Your Skin As Sheer As A Cobweb, Let Me Open It Up And Listen In And Scoop Out The Dark.