I'm At The Point Where Going Forward

I Feel Like My Eyes Are Killing Me At The End Of The Day And That I Shouldn't Use Them.

I Don't Think I Make Much Of A Distinction Between The 'real' And The 'fantastic.' They Both Seem To Be Threads In The Same Cloth As Far As I'm Concerned.

Real Love, After All, Was Worth The Price You Paid, However Briefly It Might Last.

They Were Written On Cheap Blue Notebooks Bought By Poor Women. I'm Interested In Folk Tales In The Way That Medicine And Magic In Women's Stories Are All Kind Of Combined.

That Was The Way Illness Appeared In A House, In The Corners, In Between Floorboards, On The Hooks In The Closet, Along With The Sweaters And Coats.