What has happened makes the world. Live on the edge, looking.

I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than home.

Locale is both a geographic term and the inner sense of being.

Suddenly the whole imagination of writing and editorial and newspaper and all these presumptions about who am I reading this, and who else other people may be, and all that, it's so grimly brutal!

Hopefully, I write what I don't know.

For love - I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes.

O love, where are you leading me now?