I Want To Become Acutely Aware Of

Not Easy To State The Change You Made. If I'm Alive Now, I Was Dead, Though, Like A Stone, Unbothered By It.

Perhaps Some Day I'll Crawl Back Home, Beaten, Defeated. But Not As Long As I Can Make Stories Out Of My Heartbreak, Beauty Out Of Sorrow.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

Then I Decided I Would Spend The Summer Writing A Novel. That Would Fix A Lot Of People.

I Wondered What I Thought I Was Burying.