If Only A Group Of People Were

I Couldn’t See The Point Of Getting Up. I Had Nothing To Look Forward To.

I Suppose If I Gave Myself The Chance I Could Be An Alcoholic.

You Ask Me Why I Spend My Life Writing? Do I Find Entertainment? Is It Worthwhile? Above All, Does It Pay? If Not, Then, Is There A Reason?... I Write Only Because There Is A Voice Within Me. That Will Not Be Still.

I, To You, Am Lost In The Gorgeous Errors Of Flesh.

And I, Stepping From This Skin Of Old Bandages, Boredoms, Old Faces Step To You From The Black Car Of Lethe, Pure As A Baby.