It is everyone else's fault but mine. I do not inherit one disease after another or take on one as payment for character device. I do not hold the world between my legs or shuck my fingernails in regret. But perhaps it is regret. I have never been to Philidelphia and I have never stuck a toe in the terribly broad-boards of the Pacific and I have never sat in a crimson-lit theatre, crying farce and poetic sticks, and too many hedges. I have never inhaled the ashes from a pencil lead. Perhaps it is regret because I am not, I am not broad and I am not expansive, I am not ticket nor bamboo tongue, I am not impressive nor mindful calender girl, previous result, or chemical. As always, in some English voice, I am being vain. Not chemical but vain and my English voice pains me, night and day. I do not hold the world between myself. there is no permission, just punishments in material-i cannot bear to speak or touch. I do not hold the world between myself and I- there are just too many spirits and hedges inhabiting this place.