Every Once In A While I Feel

Love Grows More Tremendously Full, Swift, Poignant, As The Years Multiply.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

Realism Is Death To Me. I Cannot Stand Life As It Is.

What Is Writing But An Expression Of My Own Life?

I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My Head Boils. My Feet Are Cold. But I Am Not Aware Of Any Weakness.