1. The reptilian side of my brain prowls your world for fresh, white mice.
2. I was on my knees in the bathroom at four in the morning. I was crying and staring at the blood and teeth I had coughed into my hands. Someone stood in the doorway and said, "What have you done to yourself? What have you done to yourself?"
3. I'm not sure. What is the best way to say good-bye? To say nothing at all?
4. Bed is the only place I find myself wide awake. I think about a word I'm not supposed to mention. No one is supposed to think about it. I think about it all the time. The word and the act. I have nothing to contribute to this world but absence. I was born into this world with a shovel to dig myself out. I hug my shovel late at night and early in the morning when I am sick and lonely. I hug my shovel. I don't want to start digging. I don't want to start digging. The dirt will keep falling. And I will keep digging. Until I hit the stars.