Everyone In Me Is A Bird I

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.

All In All, I'd Say, The World Is Strangling.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.