My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved

What A Great Thing! To Be A Writer! Words Are Something You Can Carry In Your Head. You Can Really 'travel Light.'

I Know This Body Is Impatient. I Know I Constitute Only A Meager Voice And Mind. Yet I Loved, I Love. I Want No Sentimentality. I Want No More Than Home.

The Pattern Of The Narrative Never Of Necessity Wants To End, It Never Has To.

Suddenly The Whole Imagination Of Writing And Editorial And Newspaper And All These Presumptions About Who Am I Reading This, And Who Else Other People May Be, And All That, It's So Grimly Brutal!

Moon, Moon, When You Leave Me Alone All The Darkness Is An Utter Blackness, A Pit Of Fear, A Stench, Hands Unreasonable Never To Touch. But I Love You. Do You Love Me. What To Say When You See Me.