They Say Drugs Are Not The Answer,

I Felt Beautiful But Also Interrupted. I Wasn't Used To Being So Complicated.

The Santa Anas Blew In Hot From The Desert, Shriveling The Last Of The Spring Grass Into Whiskers Of Pale Straw. Only The Oleanders Thrived, Their Delicate Poisonous Blooms, Their Dagger Green Leaves. We Could Not Sleep In The Hot Dry Nights, My Mother And I.

This Was The Wonderful Thing About Strangers. They Were Big Blank Pieces Of Paper, You Could Draw Watever You Like On Their Impresionable Surfaces

I Wanted To Tell Her Not To Entertain Despair Like This. Despaire Wasn't A Guest, You Didn't Play Its Favorite Music, Find It A Comfortable Chair. Despair Was The Enemy." -white Oleander

I Think We're Starved For A Life Of The Senses. We're In The Garage, We're In The Car, We Drive To Work, We're In A Windowless Cubicle That's Gray And Beige. In A Way, It's Funny That We Consider Ourselves An Advanced Culture, Because People Who Live In So-called Primitive Environments Still Enjoy The Richness Of The Smells, Colors, And Sounds Of Our World. We All Crave That.