Perfection Is Terrible, It Cannot Have Children.

I Want To Write Because I Have The Urge To Excel In One Medium Of Translation And Expression Of Life. I Can't Be Satisfied With The Colossal Job Of Merely Living. Oh, No, I Must Order Life In Sonnets And Sestinas And Provide A Verbal Reflector For My 60-watt Lighted Head.

O Heart, Such Disorganization!

I Need Not To Be More With Others, But To Be More & More Deeply, Richly Alone. Recreating Worlds.

If I Rest, If I Think Inward, I Go Mad.

I Want To Become Acutely Aware Of All I've Taken For Granted.