I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.