Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

There is no life higher than the grasstops

You smile. No, it is not fatal.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.