The Trouble With Therapy Is That It

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

I Am Out Of Practice At Living. You Are As Brave As A Motorcycle.

Being Kissed On The Back Of The Knee Is A Moth At The Windowscreen.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind