Need Is Not Quite Belief.

I Love The Word Warm. It Is Almost Unbearable-- So Moist And Breathlike.

Someone Is Dead. Even The Trees Know It, Those Poor Old Dancers Who Come On Lewdly, All Pea-green Scarfs And Spine Pole.

The Day Of Fire Is Coming, The Thrush Will Fly Ablaze Like A Little Sky Rocket.

All Day I've Built A Lifetime And Now The Sun Sinks To Undo It.

I’m Lost. And It’s My Own Fault. It’s About Time I Figured Out That I Can’t Ask People To Keep Me Found.