Insomnia" Perhaps She's A Daytime Sleeper.

I've Never Written The Things I'd Like To Write That I've Admired All My Life. Maybe One Never Does.

And As To Experience-well, Think How Little Some Good Poets Have Had, Or How Much Some Bad Ones Have.

Icebergs Behoove The Soul (both Being Self-made From Elements Least Visible) To See Themselves: Fleshed, Fair, Erected, Indivisible.

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must Do.