Writing, For Me, Is A Search For

While Time, The Endless Idiot, Runs Screaming Round The World.

There Are The Lover And The Beloved, But These Two Come From Different Countries.

To Know Who You Are, You Have To Have A Place To Come From.

In His Face There Came To Be A Brooding Peace That Is Seen Most Often In The Faces Of The Very Sorrowful Or The Very Wise. But Still He Wandered Through The Streets Of The Town, Always Silent And Alone.

Her Face Felt Like It Was Scattered In Pieces And She Could Not Keep It Straight. The Feeling Was A Whole Lot Worse Than Being Hungry For Any Dinner, Yet It Was Like That. I Want--i Want--i Want--was All That She Could Think About--but Just What This Real Want Was She Did No Know.