And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.

Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.

My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!