The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.
I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.