When it's all too stupid out here,I hide in books.

Before my father's grave, I sit alone.Upon some sheets of grimy paper, I writeMy tale, the most dreaded of known tales, A tale whose grisly facts poured outAcross the plains of vast Arabia.

O my people, whenever ye drinkA drop of water, remember me.Or if ye hear of butchered menAnd headless stiffs, surrender thee;For I am the one who lies in shredsWhere my cruel foes dismembered me!

I used to think / that writing is written to be read; it isn't. / Writing is written / to be written.

I used to think that writing is written to be read; it isn't. Writing is written to be written.

Just let me knowwhen my fifteen minutes are up

I amMostAloneAmong people.

Just let me knowwhen my fifteen minutes are up.