I Am Not Really A Writer. I

Conversation Is The Wall We Build Between Ourselves And Other People, Too Often With Tired Words Like Used And Broken Bottles Which, Catching The Sunlight As They Lie Embedded In The Wall, Are Mistaken For Jewels.

The Sooner You 'settle' The Sooner You'll Be Allowed Home" Was The Ruling Logic; And "if You Can't Adapt Yourself To Living In A Mental Hospital How Do You Expect To Be Able To Live 'out In The World'?" How Indeed?

Time Past Is Not Time Gone, It Is Time Accumulated With The Host Resembling The Character In The Fairytale Who Was Joined Along The Route By More And More Characters None Of Whom Could Be Separated From One Another Or From The Host, With Some Stuck So Fast That Their Presence Caused Physical Pain.

So We Went To Bed, Assaulted By Sleep That Fumed At Us From Medicine Glasses, Or Was Wielded From Small Sweet-coated Tablets -- Dainty Bricks Of Dream Wrapped In The Silk Stockings Of Oblivion.

I Have Discovered That My Freedom Is Within Me, And Nothing Can Destroy It.