I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know. "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said. "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

Your room is not your prison. You are.