Just let me knowwhen my fifteen minutes are up.

I amMostAloneAmong people.

Just let me knowwhen my fifteen minutes are up

There is in me an insatiable thirst for a quest. For discovering things greater than ourselves. Beyond that is a murky darkness which beckons me to its call. I seek movement for movement's sake. There is no destination except the verb of motion...I seek to dive into the unknown and allow its wisdom to take me away. And when it is finished with me, it will bring me back and things will never be the same again.

I used to think that writing is written to be read; it isn't. Writing is written to be written.

I used to think / that writing is written to be read; it isn't. / Writing is written / to be written.

O my people, whenever ye drinkA drop of water, remember me.Or if ye hear of butchered menAnd headless stiffs, surrender thee;For I am the one who lies in shredsWhere my cruel foes dismembered me!

Before my father's grave, I sit alone.Upon some sheets of grimy paper, I writeMy tale, the most dreaded of known tales, A tale whose grisly facts poured outAcross the plains of vast Arabia.

When it's all too stupid out here,I hide in books.

And once the kaleidoscopic whirr of the universe folded and felded and melted into the next song we gently opened our eyes and with a gentle gust we parted like parting lips like parting water drops like parting whispers in the wind's icy drift and her sweet dark hair and crisp white blouse and taut blue jeans floated away and drafted daintily down the stairs and I never saw her again.