You have no idea what it is like to constantly disappoint people. You see it the moment you meet them. You see in their eyes that they expected something so entirely different, and here they are meeting... you.

Why was I born with such contemporaries?

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

When Clark Gable died, I cried for 2 days straight. I couldn't eat or sleep.

Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?