I Have The Sense That If I

I Am Sensible Of The Velocity Of The Moments, And Entering That Part Of My Head Alert To The Motion Of The World I Am Aware That Life Was Never Perfect, Never Absolute. This Bestows Contentment, Even A Fearlessness.

Nothing I Have Ever Written Has Been Admired As Much As The Announcement Of My Death.

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

Being Ill Like This Combines Shock - This Time I Will Die - With A Pain And Agony That Are Unfamiliar, That Wrench Me Out Of Myself.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.