Often Writing Is Like A

The Cold Winds Of Insecurity... Hadn't Shredded The Dreamy Chrysalis Of His Childhood. He Was Still Immersed In The Dim, Wet Wonder Of The Folded Wings That Might Open If Someone Loved Him; He Still Hoped, Probably, In A Butterfly's Unthinking Way, For Spring And Warmth. How The Wings Ache, Folded So, Waiting; That Is, They Ache Until They Atrophy.

I Am Startled When People Are Themselves And Are Not My Thoughts Of Them.

Nothing I Have Ever Written Has Been Admired As Much As The Announcement Of My Death.

I Am In An Adolescence In Reverse, As Mysterious As The First, Except That This Time I Feel It As A Decay Of The Odds That I Might Live For A While, That I Can Sleep It Off.

I Have Aids. I Am Surprised That I Do. I Have Not Been Exposed Since1977, Which Is To Say That My Experience, Myadventures In Homosexuality Took Place Largely In The1960s And '70s, And Back Then I Relied On Time And Abstinence To Indicate My Degree Of Freedom From Infectionand To Protect Others And Myself.