The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

I think I am mad sometimes.

God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.

There is no life higher than the grasstops

I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.