I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

Masks are the order of the day - and the least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not hollow and afraid.

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

... you looked around and saw everybody either married or busy and happy and thinking and being creative, and you felt scared, sick, lethargic, worst of all, not wanting to cope. You saw visions of yourself in a straightjacket, and a drain on the family, murdering your mother in actuality, killing the edifice of love and respect built up over the years in the hearts of other people.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.