Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.

I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.

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.