Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

Literature + Illness = Illness

The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A Carnivorous Flower.

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

I Decided To Tell The Truth Even If It Meant Being Pointed At.

No One Pays Attention To These Killings, But The Secret Of The World Is Hidden In Them.