Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.