She Was Not Used To Being Cruel,

The Santa Anas Blew In Hot From The Desert, Shriveling The Last Of The Spring Grass Into Whiskers Of Pale Straw. Only The Oleanders Thrived, Their Delicate Poisonous Blooms, Their Dagger Green Leaves. We Could Not Sleep In The Hot Dry Nights, My Mother And I.

I Felt Beautiful But Also Interrupted. I Wasn't Used To Being So Complicated.

I Decided That If I Was Never Going To Sell Anything As Long As I Lived, I Might As Well Do What I Want To Do 'cause Then At Least I Would've Done What I Wanted To Do In Life. What's That Worth?

When I Start Writing, My Unconscious, My Conflicts, My Thoughts All Start To Come Up. So For Me, Writing Is An Exploration. I Never Know How My Stories Will End.

Here, Here Is My Dark World. You Carry It For A Change. Im Out