Death May Whiten In Sun

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.

God, If Ever I Have Come Close To Wanting To Commit Suicide, It Is Now, With The Groggy Sleepless Blood Dragging Through My Veins, And The Air Thick And Gray With Rain ... I Fell Into Bed Again This Morning, Begging For Sleep, Withdrawing Into The Dark, Warm, Fetid Escape From Action, From Responsibility. No Good.

I Have Never Found Anybody Who Could Stand To Accept The Daily Demonstrative Love I Feel In Me, And Give Back As Good As I Give.

If You Expect Nothing From Anybody, You’re Never Disappointed.

I Feel Terribly Vulnerable And 'not-myself' When I'm Not Writing.