O Love, How Did You Get Here?

The Frost Makes A Flower, The Dew Makes A Star.

I May Have Made A Straight A In Physics, But I Was Panic-struck. Physics Made Me Sick The Whole Time I Learned It.

Tomorrow Is Another Day Toward Death.

The One Thing I Was Good At Was Winning Scholarships And Prizes, And That Era Was Coming To An End.

I Feel, Am Mad As Any Writer Must In One Way Be; Why Not Make It Real? I Am Too Close To The Bourgeois Society Of Suburbia: Too Close To People I Know I Must Sever My Self From Them, Or Be A Part Of Their World: This Half And Half Compromise Is Intolerable.