I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

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

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.