Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

Like a cat I have nine times to die.

I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

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.

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

How many different deaths I can die?