Long Ago, Among Other Lies

There Is Moss On The Walls And The Stain Of Thought And Failure And Waiting

I Write As A Function. Without It I Would Fall Ill And Die. It's As Much A Part Of One As The Liver Or Intestine, And Just About As Glamorous.

We Don’t Even Ask Happiness, Just A Little Less Pain.

What A Weary Time Those Years Were -- To Have The Desire And The Need To Live But Not The Ability.

And Yet Women-good Women--frightened Me Because They Eventually Wanted Your Soul, And What Was Left Of Mine, I Wanted To Keep.