I think I am mad sometimes.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

Mother of otherness, Eat me.

Tomorrow is another day toward death.

I said: I must remember this, being small.

I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.