Even So, I Must Admire Your Skill.

I Leave You, Home, When I'm Ripped From The Doorstep By Commerce Or Fate. Then I Submit To The Awful Subway Of The World.

Let The Light Be Called Day So That Men May Grow Corn Or Take Busses.

No One To Hate Except The Slim Fish Of Memory That Slides In And Out Of My Brain.

Need Is Not Quite Belief.

I Am Tearing The Feathers Out Of The Pillows, Waiting, Waiting For Daddy To Come Home And Stuff Me So Full Of Our Infected Child That I Turn Invisible, But Married, At Last.