I Have Stitched Life Into

I Want So Obviously, So Desperately To Be Loved, And To Be Capable Of Love.

I Inhabit The Wax Image Of Myself, A Doll's Body. Sickness Begins Here; I Am A Dartboard For Witches.

…beating Time Along The Edge Of Thought.

Nothing Is Real Except The Present, And Already, I Feel The Weight Of Centuries Smothering Me. Some Girl A Hundred Years Ago Once Lived As I Do. And She Is Dead. I Am The Present, But I Know I, Too, Will Pass. The High Moment, The Burning Flash, Come And Are Gone, Continuous Quicksand. And I Don’t Want To Die.

What I Fear Most, I Think, Is The Death Of The Imagination.