- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Nothing But Tragedies
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I'm saying the world ends in 2021. Let that mean whatever it means. The narrative comes so fast. Stockholm syndrome plus a jealous soul. Who are we to declare anything belongs to us? I don't understand philosophy. [Runs to Shakespeare; gets nothing but tragedies.] Resurrected imaginary friends but I try so hard to make this language move. Like psychic searches of memory etched away by life. Plots are where you bury the dead. This is moment to moment.
