When the sirens find this road--adrenaline red ignoring the yellow ribbons, the black tar--it turns me, changes me, turns me inside out. And I run screaming, hands held cupped over the ears, past the house, through the yard beyond the fragrant wall of lilacs into a muddy patch sprouted loud with rhubarb, its broad and honest leaves (and the snakes that they conceal).
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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