You Work Hard On A

Must Protect My Little Pockets Of Happiness.

I Cling To My Anger With Every Ounce Of Humanity Left In My Ruined Body, But It's No Use. It Slips Away, Like A Wave From Shore. I Am Pondering This Sad Fact When I Realize The Blackness Of Sleep Is Circling My Head. It's Been There Awhile, Biding It's Time And Growing Closer With Each Revolution. I Give Up On Rage, Which At This Point Has Become A Formality, And Make A Mental Note To Get Angry Again In The Morning. Then I Let Myself Drift, Because There's Really No Fighting It.

The Only Thing That Makes Me Crazier Than Writing Is Not Writing.

... A Gaggle Of Old Ladies Is Glued To The Window At The End Of The Hall Like Children Or Jailbirds. They're Spidery And Frail, Their Hair As Fine As Mist. Most Of Them Are A Good Decade Younger Than Me, And This Astounds Me. Even As Your Body Betrays You, Your Mind Denies It.--there Are Five Of Them Now, White Headed Old Things Huddled Together And Pointing Crooked Fingers At The Glass.

Sometimes When You Get Older — And I’m Not Talking About You, I’m Talking Generally, Because Everyone Ages Differently — Things You Think On And Wish On Start To Seem Real. And Then You Believe Them, And Before You Know It They’re Part Of Your History, And If Someone Challenges You On Them And Says They’re Not True — Why, Then You Get Offended Because You Can’t Remember The First Part. All You Know Is That You’ve Been Called A Liar.