Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?

Not being perfect hurts.

I think I am mad sometimes.

There was a beautiful time.

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.