How We Need Another Soul To Cling

How Can I Tell Bob That My Happiness Streams From Having Wrenched A Piece Out Of My Life, A Piece Of Hurt And Beauty, And Transformed It To Typewritten Words On Paper? How Can He Know I Am Justifying My Life, My Keen Emotions, My Feeling, By Turning It Into Print?

Once One Has Seen God, What Is The Remedy?

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

I Suppose If I Gave Myself The Chance I Could Be An Alcoholic.

A Dispassionate White Sun Shone At The Summit Of The Sky. I Wanted To Hone Myself On It Till I Grew Saintly And Thin And Essential As The Blade Of A Knife.