Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.