Father Said Conflict Develops The Character

I Can't Read Or Sleep. Without Hope Or Youth Or Money I Sit Constantly Wishing I Were Dead.

I Wish I Could Write A Beautiful Book To Break Those Hearts That Are Soon To Cease To Exist: A Book Of Faith And Small Neat Worlds And Of People Who Live By The Philosophies Of Popular Songs.

I Take A Sun Bath And Listen To The Hours, Formulating, And Disintegrating Under The Pines, And Smell The Resiny Hardihood Of The High Noon Hours. The World Is Lost In A Blue Haze Of Distances, And The Immediate Sleeps In A Thin And Finite Sun.

Something In Me Vibrates To A Dusky, Dreamy Smell Of Dying Moons And Shadows.

It Is The Loose Ends With Which Men Hang Themselves.