What Is Writing? Writing Is

There Is No Tyrant As Merciless As Pain.

He Could Feel The Pores Of His Body Open Like A Million Mouths And Slurp The Water In Like A Sponge.

Time Slowed And Reality Bent; On And On The Eggman Went.

How Life Did Imitate Art Sometimes. And The Cruder The Art, The Closer The Imitation.

It's Only A Little Secret, But Having A Secret Makes Me Feel Better. Like A Human Being Again.