Your Room Is Not Your Prison. You

The Moon Has Nothing To Be Sad About, Staring From Her Hood Of Bone. She Is Used To This Sort Of Thing. Her Blacks Crackle And Drag.

Very Depressed Today. Unable To Write A Thing. Menacing Gods. I Feel Outcast On A Cold Star, Unable To Feel Anything But An Awful Helpless Numbness.

The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

The Lawn Was White With Doctors

You Smile. No, It Is Not Fatal.