This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Then I thought, "No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.

A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.