And I A Smiling Woman. I Am

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

I Get Into A Rut, Unable To Yank My Mind Out Of It.

I Am Afraid. I Am Not Solid, But Hollow. I Feel Behind My Eyes A Numb, Paralyzed Cavern, A Pit Of Hell, A Mimicking Nothingness.

Don't Let The Wicked City Get You Down.

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