I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

Don't let the wicked city get you down.

I am myself. That is not enough.