We Are All Writing God's Poem.

And The Aura Of You Remains, Remains, Remains...

Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build.

I Have A Black Look I Do Not Like. It Is A Mask I Try On. I Migrate Toward It And Its Frog Sits On My Lips And Defecates.

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.