Love your self's self where it lives.There is no special God to refer to; or if there is,why did I let you growin another place. You did not know my voicewhen I came back to call. All the superlativesof tomorrow's white tree and mistletoewill not help you know the holidays you had to miss.

I rot on the wall, my ownDorian Gray|Dorian Gray.

I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,waved my nude arms at villages going by,learning the last bright routes, survivorwhere your flames still bite my thighand my ribs crack where your wheels wind.A woman like that is not ashamed to die.I have been her kind.

All who love have lied.

Fact: death too is in the egg. Fact: the body is dumb, the body is meat.And tomorrow the O.R. Only the summer was sweet.

Need is not quite belief.

Dearest,although everything has happened,nothing has happened.

A woman who writes feels too much,those trances and portents!As if cycles and children and islandsweren't enough; as if mourners and gossipsand vegetables were never enough.She thinks she can warm the stars.A writer is essentially a spy.Dear love, I am that girl.

It would be pleasant to be drunk:faithless to my tongue and hands,giving up the boundariesfor the heroic gin.Dead drunk is the term I think of,insensible,neither cool nor warm,without a head or foot.To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.I will try it shortly.