Mother of otherness, Eat me.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

And what is happy? It is a going always on. There is something better to be done than I have done, and spurred by the fair delusion of progress, I will seek to progress, to whip myself on, to more and more- to learning. Always.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

we walk the plank with strangers.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.