I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.

I am myself. That is not enough.

The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

I think I am mad sometimes.

A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.

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.

And I, love, am a pathological liar.