I Woke To The Sound Of Rain.

I Smile, Now, Thinking: We All Like To Think We Are Important Enough To Need Psychiatrists

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

Writing, Then, Was A Substitute For Myself: If You Don't Love Me, Love My Writing & Love Me For My Writing. It Is Also Much More: A Way Of Ordering And Reordering The Chaos Of Experience.

Dancing Is The Normal Prelude To Intercourse.

I Don’t Care About Anyone, And The Feeling Is Quite Obviously Mutual.