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

I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.

The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.

Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.