Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off

I Started Adding Up All The Things I Couldn't Do.

Everything In Life Is Writable.

How Can I Tell Bob That My Happiness Streams From Having Wrenched A Piece Out Of My Life, A Piece Of Hurt And Beauty, And Transformed It To Typewritten Words On Paper? How Can He Know I Am Justifying My Life, My Keen Emotions, My Feeling, By Turning It Into Print?

Jealousy Can Open The Blood, It Can Make Black Roses.