  Written. 11. January. 2000 sitting in the tub, head bent- the spray showering down on me; its silent, except for the water And its a small thing, but I love it, you can't take it from me. the lines in a hand, tendons flexing, veins bubbling to the surface- such aesthetic beauty to me- such wonder in a hand, you can't take it from me. I'm running away from the change. From the knowledge. From the being. From the doing. I don't know how to break through I don't know how to get anyone to listen to me. I wrap myself in silence, blanket my world with denial, so that I don't have to face it. I'll never get what I want that way. I don't know what I want. 
