Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.

God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

Talking about my fears to others feeds it.