The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed.
Something was coming out of my throat:
it was strangling me.
I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out.
I went back to bed and said:
I have just spat out my heart.

House Of Incest, Anaïs Nin


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         For he's the super realist                                                               
                                   who must perforce percieve
      taut truth                                                                                  
      before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance ( Read more... )

It's bugging me, grating me
And twisting me around
Yeah, I'm endlessly caving in
And turning inside out
It's holding me, morphing me
And forcing me to strive
To be endlessly cold within
And dreaming I'm alive


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