I Do Not Know Who I Am,

And If You Have No Past Or Future Which, After All, Is All That The Present Is Made Of, Why Then You May As Well Dispose Of The Empty Shell Of Present And Commit Suicide.

Character Is Fate.

Oh What A Poet I Will Flay Myself Into.

What Did My Arms Do Before They Held You?

At Twenty I Tried To Die And Get Back, Back, Back To You. I Thought Even The Bones Would Do.