We Are All Writing God's Poem.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

I Cannot Walk An Inch / Without Trying To Walk To God.

The Town Is Silent. The Night Boils With Eleven Stars. Oh Starry Starry Night! This Is How I Want To Die.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.

All Considerations For These Human Remains! They Must Have An Escort! They Are Classified!