The Joy That Isn't Shared Dies Young.

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

Letters Are False Really - They Are Expressions Of The Way You Wish You Were Instead Of The Way You Are.

Why Are All These Dolls Falling Out Of The Sky? Was There A Father? Or Have The Planets Cut Holes In Their Nets And Let Our Childhood Out, Or Are We The Dolls Themselves, Born But Never Fed?

It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.