Need is not quite belief.
I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.