I Don't Want To Disappear.

It's A True Image, Born Of A False Spectacle.

Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip Her Of Every Kind Of Happiness As To Make A Saint Of Her.

Power May Be At The End Of A Gun, But Sometimes It's Also At The End Of The Shadow Or The Image Of A Gun.

She Was Happy, And Perfectly In Line With The Tradition Of Those Women They Used To Call "ruined," "fallen," Feckless, Bitches In Heat, Ravished Dolls, Sweet Sluts, Instant Princesses, Hot Numbers, Great Lays, Succulent Morsels, Everybody's Darlings . . .

Limited By The World, Which I Oppose, Jagged By It, I Shall Be All The More Handsome And Sparkling As The Angles Which Wound Me And Give Me Shape Are More Acute And The Jagging More Cruel.