I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

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

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.