I do not fear it: I have been there.

As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.

I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.