Art's Cruel. You Can Get Away With

It's Like The Day You Realize Dolls Are Dolls. I Pick Up My Old Self And I See It's Silly. A Toy I've Played With Too Often. It's A Little Sad, Like An Old Golliwog At The Bottom Of The Cupboard. Innocent And Used-up And Proud And Silly.

Because A Star Explodes And A Thousand Worlds Like Ours Die, We Know This World Is. That Is The Smile: That What Might Not Be, Is.

The Absurdly Neurotic Role You And The Rest Of Your Kind Have Always Attributed To Me Erato, The Goddess Muse Of Erotic Poetry Bears No Relation At All To Reality. As A Matter Of Fact, I Was Trained As A Clinical Psychologist. Who Simply Happens To Have Specialized In The Mental Illness That You, In Your Ignorance, Call Literature.

You Put Up With Your Voice And Speak With It Because You Haven't Any Choice. But It's What You Say That Counts.

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.