I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.

I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.

How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.