I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.
I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.
I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.