I Am A Cigarette With A Body

But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.

This Is Awful. I Don't Know What's Going To Happen To Me Or To Anyone Else In The World.

It Ought To Make Us Feel Ashamed When We Talk Like We Know What We're Talking About When We Talk About Love.

And What Did You Want? To Call Myself Beloved, To Feel Myself Beloved On The Earth.

In The Beginning, When I Was Trying To Write, I Couldnt Turn Off The Outside World To The Extent That I Can Now.