Are There Any Writers On The Literary

Sometimes When I Think How Good My Book Can Be, I Can Hardly Breathe.

I Couldn't Understand A Sense Of Unease That Multiplied Until I Could Hear My Heart Beating.

Gasping For Breath, The Body Still Battling For Life.

I Am Always Drawn Back To Places Where I Have Lived, The Houses And Their Neighborhoods.

Of Course People Couldn't Help But Think I Must Be A Bit Of A Dyke Myself. And Of Course I Am. Everyone Is: A Bit. So What? That Never Discouraged A Man Yet, In Fact It Seems To Goad Them On.