When They Asked Me What I Wanted

Every Day Is Precious And I Feel Infinitely Sad At This Time Melting Away From Me.

And The Danger Is That In This Move Toward New Horizons And Far Directions, That I May Lose What I Have Now, And Not Find Anything Except Loneliness

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

And If You Have No Past Or Future Which, After All, Is All That The Present Is Made Of, Why Then You May As Well Dispose Of The Empty Shell Of Present And Commit Suicide.

What Is So Real As The Cry Of A Child?