Character is fate.

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

Mother of otherness, Eat me.