I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples.

I Feel Terribly Vulnerable And 'not-myself' When I'm Not Writing.

Aloneness And Selfness Are Too Important To Betray For Company.

I Drink Sherry And Wine By Myself Because I Like It And I Get The Sensuous Feeling Of Indulgence...luxury, Bliss, Erotic-tinged.

There Ought, I Thought, To Be A Ritual For Being Born Twice - Patched, Retreaded And Approved For The Road.

I Need Some Older, Wiser Being To Cry To. I Talk To God, But The Sky Is Empty, And Orion Walks By And Doesn't Speak.