I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like

I Want So Obviously, So Desperately To Be Loved, And To Be Capable Of Love.

They Would Grow Old. They Would Forget Me.

But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.

Living With Him Is Like Being Told A Perpetual Story: His Mind Is The Biggest, Most Imaginative I Have Ever Met. I Could Live In Its Growing Countries Forever.

I've Got To Have Something. I Want To Stop It All, The Whole Monumental Grotesque Joke, Before It's Too Late. But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.