I Often Felt Myself To Be An

Pain Collected Into Deep Pockets And I Was Aware Of This Painbut Somehow I Could Not Seem To Feel It. It Was Like A Body-deafness.

I Want A Real Encounter With Something True And Disconcerting About Peoples' Natures.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.

In Short Stories There's More Permission To Be Elliptical. You Can Have Image-logic, Or It's Almost Like A Poem In That You Can Come To A Lot Of Meanings Within A Short Space.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.