The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

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

Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.