[i] Have Fantasies Of Killing

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

I Am Not At Home In Myself. I Am My Own Stranger.

Let There Be A Heaven So That Man May Outlive His Grasses.

I'm An Empress. I Wear An Apron. My Typewriter Writes. It Didn't Break The Way It Warned. Even Crazy, I'm As Nice As A Chocolate Bar.