Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
The first time I saw a fingerbowl was at the home of my benefactress. [...] The water had a few cherry blossoms in it, and I thought it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate every bit of it, including the crisp little blossoms.
Mother of otherness, Eat me.
Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
Wear your heart on your skin in this life.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.