You Know What Lies Are For.

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.

The Frost Makes A Flower, The Dew Makes A Star.

Feel Oddly Barren. My Sickness Is When Words Draw In Their Horns And The Physical World Refuses To Be Ordered, Recreated, Arranged And Selected. I Am A Victim Of It Then, Not A Master.

I Must Bridge The Gap Between Adolescent Glitter And Mature Glow.

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