I'm So Used To Being Misunderstood.

That The World I Was In Could Be Soft, Lovely, And Nourishing Was More Than I Could Bear, And So I Stood There And Wept, For I Didn't Want To Love One More Thing In My Life, Didn't Want One More Thing That Could Make My Heart Break Into A Million Little Pieces At My Feet.

I Wish That I Could Love Someone So Much That I Would Die From It.

Once You Cease To Be A Master, Once You Throw Off Your Master's Yoke, You Are No Longer Human Rubbish, You Are A Human Being, And All The Things That Adds Up To. So, Too, With The Slaves. Once They Are No Longer Slaves, Once They Are Free, They Are No Longer Noble And Exalted; They Are Just Human Beings.

Something Settiled Inside Me, Something Heavy And Hard. It Stayed There, And I Could Not Think Of One Thing To Make It Go Away. I Thought, So This Must Be Living, This Must Be The Beginning Of The Time People Later Refer To As 'years Ago, When I Was Young'.

I Write A Lot In My Head. The Revision Goes On Internally. It's Not Spontaneous And It Doesn't Have A Schedule.