Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.'

I remember that as I was writing a poem on 'Snow' when I was eight, I said aloud, 'I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now when I am little, because when I grow up, I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.'

I am a victim of introspection.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

There is an increasing market for mental hospital stuff. I am a fool if I don't relive it, recreate it.

My goal is that after I am dead and gone, I want people to remember me for the person I am.