Love Only Brought Me Lonliness And Horror.

Let Things Be, Let Yourself Be, Let Everything Be And Accept It As It Is. Nothing More. Nothing Less.

What Someone Calls My Books Is Irrelevant To Me. I Consider Them Works Of Art And Rules And Categories And Labels Mean Nothing.

I Turn And I Look Back Across The Lake. The Mist Is Gone And The Ice Diminished, The Drip Of The Icicles Quick And Heavy. The Sun Is Up And The Sky Is Blue Empty Blue Light Blue Clear Blue. I Would Drink The Sky If I Could Drink It, Drink It And Celebrate It And Let It Fill Me And Become Me. I Am Getting Better. Empty And Clear And Light And Blue. I Am Getting Better.

I Don't Write With An Outline. I Don't Often Know What I'm Going To Do As I'm Writing. And I Do Everything By Feel And By Instinct.

But All Good Things Come To An End, Often A Sad Angry Miserable End. The Cause For Such An End Can Usually Be Whittled Down To One Of Three Things: Money, Sickness, Love Lost.