A Black-sharded Lady Keeps Me In A

The Claw Of The Magnolia, Drunk On Its Own Scents, Asks Nothing Of Life.

I Need More Than Anything Right Now What Is, Of Course, Most Impossible, Someone To Love Me, To Be With Me At Night When I Wake Up In Shuddering Horror And Fear Of The Cement Tunnels Leading Down To The Shock Room, To Comfort Me With An Assurance That No Psychiatrist Can Quite Manage To Convey.

I Am What I Feel And Think And Do.

There I Went Again, Building Up A Glamorous Picture Of A Man Who Would Love Me Passionately The Minute He Met Me, And All Out Of A Few Prosy Nothings.

You Are The One. Solid The Spaces Lean On, Envious. You Are The Baby In The Barn.