I keep my diary near my heart.
It is the outer fragment of my being; it is a little old yet the cover shines.
Its pages are the petals of me, a little pale, wrinkled, rusty, and shadowed with the bloom of tears.
I have painted it with walking words, lustrous grinning phrases, silently breathed metaphors, luminous prisoned thoughts, and magnificent chronicles of my soul's torment,
All hold each other like the petals of a detested flower when I let my nib dance over them.

I make castles of my wandering thoughts and...