Mood Can Be As Important

I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault. It’s About Time I Figured Out That I Can’t Ask People To Keep Me Found.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

Give Me Your Skin As Sheer As A Cobweb, Let Me Open It Up And Listen In And Scoop Out The Dark.

At Six I Lived In A Graveyard Full Of Dolls, Avoiding Myself, My Body, The Suspect In Its Grotesque House.