My Protagonists Are My Mother's Voice And

I Awake With A Not Entirely Sickened Knowledge That I Am Merely Young Again And In A Funny Way At Peace, An Observer Who Is Aware Of Time's Chariot, Aware That Some Metamorphosis Has Occurred.

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.

I Have The Sense That If I Push Too Hard Or Too Far Into Memory I’ll Come Apart.

I Have Thousands Of Opinions Still - But That Is Down From Millions - And, As Always, I Know Nothing.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.