If I Didn’t Think, I’d Be Much

I Sank Back In The Gray, Plush Seat And Closed My Eyes. The Air Of The Bell Jar Wadded Round Me And I Couldn't Stir.

There Is More Than One Good Way To Drown.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

A Fierce Brief Fusion Which Dreamers Call Real, And Realists, An Illusion; An Insight Like The Flight Of Birds.

Your Room Is Not Your Prison. You Are.