Beloved goddess, sweet holy mother of us all, you who beckon me throughout these hectic days

“Don’t say anything!” spoke the shadow in the doorway. I was seven years of age. I lay limp upon the couch, still recovering from

My father has come to dinner; He does not knock. He is not welcome. He is dead. Yet he insists on joining me

Ideas and notions, they’re all for the dreamers, worth as much or less than one's considered opinion. You can’t even wrap fish in them.

I gaze down now upon the cracked and battered shell of the fearsome fiery dragon that once held me in her sway. It’s remarkable just how frail

I met a man who told me that he’s looking for the way he might become more free, less encumbered in his life. Poor me, poor me, poor me;

There ain’t no precious gold comin’ outa that there mountain, if all I wanna do is sit and dream of what I’ll do when I get some.

Sweet Mary Jane bade me follow where she led. I went eagerly. She was my life’s one true love. All the others,

Who of you will follow where I’m bound to go? None that I can see. None that I can name. No-one that I know.

These words are crude utensils, with which to touch you, and be touched;