What You Get Is No Longer What

I Wait. I Compose Myself. My Self Is A Thing I Must Now Compose, As One Composes A Speech. What I Must Present Is A Made Thing, Not Something Born.

Beginnings Are Sudden, But Also Insidious. They Creep Up On You Sideways, They Keep To The Shadows, They Lurk Unrecognized. Then, Later, They Spring.

If We Were All On Trial For Our Thoughts, We Would All Be Hanged.

I Want Everything Back, The Way It Was. But There Is No Point To It, This Wanting.

Your Hand Is A Warm Stone I Hold Between Two Words.