Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.