I Desire The Things That

The Silence Drew Off, Baring The Pebbles And Shells And All The Tatty Wreckage Of My Life.

Not Being Perfect Hurts.

A Psychiatrist Is The God Of Our Age. But They Cost Money.

The Moon Has Nothing To Be Sad About, Staring From Her Hood Of Bone. She Is Used To This Sort Of Thing. Her Blacks Crackle And Drag.

The Truth Comes To Me. The Truth Loves Me.