On A Good Day I Write, All

I Offer Emily Half Of My Hit Of Acid- Love Saves The Day. It's My Second Or Third Time Tripping, Emily's First, And She's Understandably Trepid. Awake All Night, At One Point I Find Her Touching Her Reflection In A Cruelly Lit Dorm Bathroom, Asking If She'll Ever Be The Same. I Kiss Her Then For The First Time And Whisper, No.

Writers, Especially Poets, Are Particularly Prone To Madness. There Exists A Striking Association Between Creativity And Manic Depression. Why Are More Creative People Prone To Madness? They Have More Than Average Amounts Of Energies And Abilities To See Things In A Fresh And Original Way—then Because They Also Have Depression, I Think They’re More In Touch With Human Suffering.

By The Time I Make My Way To The Border Of Mauritania, To The Edge Of The Sahara, I See No End To Being Lost. You Can Spend Your Entire Life Simply Falling In That Direction. It Isn't A Station You Reach But Just The General State Of Going Down. Once You Make It Back, If You Make It Back, You Will Stand Before Your Long-lost Friends But In Some Essential Way They Will No Longer Know You.

There Is A Physics To The World, Which Non-fiction Has A Contract To Stand In Awe Of, Otherwise It Becomes Completely Self-centered And Ego-driven, Which Is The Death Of A Memoir.

Trinity Park Lies Directly Across From The Library, Trinity Church Rising Like A Midieval Thought Amidst The Glass And Steel Towers.