'In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and...
i didn't understand, when you said you just couldn't handle it, it was "too much" -- to read all of myself, everything of myself, my bones, my blood, that i put to paper: my rawest form -- was it because it was ugly? was it that it scared you? all the flesh that you never see of me is here and did that scare you -- did you not understand it? did you not want to try to see why i was picking it apart, unraveling and unveiling and did it not occur, that this is where i feel most myself? that this is where i am most free. was my suffering just too alien as Lol Stein's was -- my small joys too foreign -- and i am skeletal and deformed and smiling at my carcass because i always knew my bones and reeds could only ever be in poetry, and the scars and wounds could only find an answer in words -- and to finally sleep in that field of rye is all i dream of -- i felt wounded by that. "too much" was only me.
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