What Horrifies Me Most Is The Idea

I Am What I Feel And Think And Do.

I've Got To Have Something. I Want To Stop It All, The Whole Monumental Grotesque Joke, Before It's Too Late. But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.

And I A Smiling Woman. I Am Only Thirty. And Like The Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.

They Had To Call And Call And Pick The Worms Off Me Like Sticky Pearls.

God, Is This All It Is, The Ricocheting Down The Corridor Of Laughter And Tears? Of Self-worship And Self-loathing? Of Glory And Disgust?