My Backyard Was Replete With

Any Place, Then, Can Become A Cemetery. All It Takes Is Your Body. It's Not Fair, I Think, And I Get This Petulant Wish For Ugly Flowers And Mourners, My Mother's Old Familiar Grief. Somebody I Love To Tend My Future Grave. Probably This Is The Wrong Thing To Be Wishing For.

I Often Felt Myself To Be An Outsider, Which Is Great Training For All Writers.

I Hope That In My Thirties I Grow As A Writer, Push Into New Territory.

Sometimes It Can Feel Like The Whole Globe Is Spinning With Irredeemable Losses, Capricious Natural Disasters And Crimes So Outrageously Evil They Dismantle Any Attempt To Solve Or Explain Them.

Regret Is A Pilgrimage Back To The Place Where I Was Free To Choose.