Mother Of Otherness, Eat Me.

I Am Inhabited By A Cry. Nightly It Flaps Out Looking, With Its Hooks, For Something To Love.

A Little Thing, Like Children Putting Flowers In My Hair, Can Fill Up The Widening Cracks In My Self-assurance Like Soothing Lanolin.

Not Being Perfect Hurts.

The Worst Enemy To Creativity Is Self-doubt.

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.