As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

women are born twice.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

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.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.