Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or

It Doesn't Matter Who My Father Was; It Matters Who I Remember He Was.

As For Me, I Am A Watercolor. I Wash Off.

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

I Try To Take Care And Be Gentle To Them. Words And Eggs Must Be Handled With Care. Once Broken They Are Impossible Things To Repair.

[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing Myself And Thus Being The Powerful One Not The Powerless One.