I Write And That Way Rid Myself

I Write As If To Save Somebody’s Life. Probably My Own. Life Is A Kind Of Madness That Death Makes. Long Live The Dead Because We Live In Them.

Putting My Hand In Someone Else’s Has Always Been My Definition Of Happiness. Before I Fall Asleep, Often - In That Small Struggle Not To Lose Consciousness And Go Into The Greater World - Often, Before I Get Up The Courage To Go Into The Vastness Of Sleep, I Pretend That Someone Has My Hand In Theirs, And Then I Go, Go To That Enormous Absence Of Form That Is Sleep. And When Even After That I Don’t Have Courage, I Dream.

I Ask Myself: Is Every Story That Has Ever Been Written In This World, A Story Of Suffering And Affliction?

And Now -- Now It Only Remains For Me To Light A Cigarette And Go Home. Dear God, Only Now Am I Remembering That People Die. Does That Include Me? Don't Forget, In The Meantime, That This Is The Season For Strawberries. Yes.

I Hear The Mad Song Of A Little Bird And Crush Butterflies Between My Fingers.