Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

Tomorrow is another day toward death.

I wondered what I thought I was burying.

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired.