It Is So Much Safer Not To

Good To Know That If I Ever Need Attention All I Have To Do Is Die.

How Many Different Deaths I Can Die?

I Felt My Lungs Inflate With The Onrush Of Scenery—air, Mountains, Trees, People. I Thought, "this Is What It Is To Be Happy.

My Flesh Winced, In Cowardice, From Such A Death.

As A Poet, One Lives A Bit On Air. I Always Like Someone Who Can Teach Me Something Practical.