Wolves Don't Hunt Singly, But

It Came To Me…that I Didn’t Want To Be Anywhere Else In The World At That Moment, That What I Was Feeling At That Moment Justified All I Had Been Through, Because All I Had Been Through Was My Being There. I Was Experiencing…a New Self-acceptance, A Sense That I Had To Be This Mind And This Body, Its Vices And Its Virtues, And That I Had No Other Chance Or Choice.

And I Just Can't Live In This Present. I Would Go Mad If I Did.

When You Draw Something It Lives And When You Photograph It It Dies

To Write Poetry And To Commit Suicide, Apparently So Contradictory, Had Really Been The Same, Attempts At Escape.

I Knew I Would Always Want To Go On Living With Myself, However Hollow I Became, However Diseased.