Whole Sight; Or All The Rest Is

And I Just Can't Live In This Present. I Would Go Mad If I Did.

To Write Poetry And To Commit Suicide, Apparently So Contradictory, Had Really Been The Same, Attempts At Escape.

They're Beautiful. But Sad.' Everything's Sad If You Make It So, I Said.

It Came To Me…that I Didn’t Want To Be Anywhere Else In The World At That Moment, That What I Was Feeling At That Moment Justified All I Had Been Through, Because All I Had Been Through Was My Being There. I Was Experiencing…a New Self-acceptance, A Sense That I Had To Be This Mind And This Body, Its Vices And Its Virtues, And That I Had No Other Chance Or Choice.

Death Is The Room That Is Always Empty.