Every Day Is Precious And I Feel

Cold Glass, How You Insert Yourself Between Myself And Myself. I Scratch Like A Cat. The Blood That Runs Is Dark Fruit- An Effect, A Cosmetic. You Smile. No, It Is Not Fatal.

There Is A Certain Clinical Satisfaction In Seeing Just How Bad Things Can Get.

They Would Grow Old. They Would Forget Me.

I Do Not Fear It: I Have Been There.

I Began To See Why Woman-haters Could Make Such Fools Of Women. Woman-haters Were Like Gods: Invulnerable And Chock Full Of Power. They Descended, And Then They Disappeared. You Could Never Catch One.