But When It Came Right

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing, Which Remark I Guess Shows I Still Don't Have A Pure Motive (o It's-such-fun-i-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) About Writing.

The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

To Annihilate The World By Annihilation Of Oneself Is The Deluded Height Of Desperate Egoism.

If The Body Is A Temple, Then Tattoos Are Its Stained Glass Windows.

Winter Dawn Is The Color Of Metal, The Trees Stiffen Into Place Like Burnt Nerves.