You Can Only Whine For So Long.

The Idea Began To Sink In, More Than It Ever Had, That I Might Be Crazy, In The Traditional Sense Of The Word. That I Might Be, Forever And Ever Amen, A Crazy Person. That's What We'd Suspected All Along, What I'd Been Working So Hard To Disprove, What Might Be True. I Preferred, By Far, Being Dead.

There Was A Time When I Was Unable To Get Out Of Bed Because My Body, Its Muscles Eating Themselves Away, Refused To Sit Up. There Was A Time When The Lies Rolled Off My Tongue With Ease, When It Was Far More Important To Me To Self-destruct Than To Admit I Had A Problem, Let Alone Allow Anyone To Help.

We Were At Another Funeral Party. I Wasn’t Sure Who Had Died This Time, But It Was A Suicide, And Upsetting Because It Was Completely Out Of Season. No On Killed Themselves In Summertime. It Was Rude.

And It's California, Where Everything Is Powerfully Strange. Everyone Wants It To Be Home. Everyone Left Where He Or She Was From With Dreams Of Transformation. Everyone Runs Away To California At Least Once, Or At Least All The Lonely, Hungry People Do.

...someone Speaks In Soft Tones To Me And Says I Am Psychotic, But It's Going To Be All Right. I Put On My Hat, Unperturbed, And Ask For Some Crayons.