I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard's study; because he would make love to me I am sending back the key; in his eye's darkroom I can see my X-rayed heart, dissected body: I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard s study.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?

Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.