She Is Deranged, But So So Playful.

I Never Confused What I Had With What I Was.

She Extended A Hand That I Didn't Know How To Take, So I Broke Its Fingers With My Silence.

Profound, Bottomless Self-doubt - It Has No Value - What's The Point? In A Way, It Takes Up As Much Time As Anything Else.

All Really Great Artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett Or Joyce - You Are Never Indifferent To Them.

The Writing Itself Is No Big Deal. The Editing, And Even More Than That, The Self-doubt, Is Excruciatingly Impossible.