The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots

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

I Do Not Know Who I Am Tonight.

God, Is This All It Is, The Ricocheting Down The Corridor Of Laughter And Tears? Of Self-worship And Self-loathing? Of Glory And Disgust?

Like A Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.

It Seemed Silly To Wash One Day When I Would Only Have To Wash Again The Next. It Made Me Tired Just To Think Of It.