Sometimes A Person's Monstrosity Seems Superhuman.

I Feel Myself Becoming Less A Person Than A Place, Inhabited, A Foreign Land.

Be Lovely And Do No Harm.

Death Is The Least Civilized Rite Of Passage.

Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be. A Writer Must Have A Place Where He Or She Feels This, The Place To Love And Be Irritated With.

...which Causes Me To Wonder, My Own Purpose On So Many Days As Humble As The Spider's, What Is Beautiful That I Make? What Is Elegant? What Feeds The World?