I like a crowded world. I like rooms, with or without windows. I like things in rooms. I like the color grey. I like ash and mud. I like the phoenix. I like corn cobs hanging down from the fire place. I like deserted homelands. I like portraits with invisible faces. I like blindness. I like pots with blackened bottoms. I like frying pans pretending to be pots. I like spoons with missing handles. I like any thing that flies. I like time. I like love in a time of death. I like the dead that refuse to die. I like fire when it crackles. I like laughter even when it cackles. I like pain so intense it is sweet. I like semen to be clear like fennel flower tea. I like staircases. I like plastic tiles. I like bathrooms with algae for walls. I like waterless wells. I like finding legless dolls in unexpected places. I like the way brides dream. I like the doubts of husbands. I like the first line of every poem. I like stories shouted against noisy motor cars. I like toe-flicking. I like finger-crossing. I like zebras. I like Winnie the pooh. I like Lady Macbeth.  I like lamps. I like smoke. I like sucking on discarded cigarettes stubs. I like trash. I like oranges, especially stolen ones. I like little girls caught in the rain. I like pins for pens. I like pens that remember their previous lives as knives. I like tears. I like spittle. I like coffee in all it pretense of empowerment. I like membranes. I like eyes, fishlike and dead. I like flesh. I like skin. I like white skin; it cannot lie about its mutilation. I like dark skin; it sorrows are secret. I like the last work of every novelist. I like authors and their lovers. I like poets and their dogs. I like miracles. I like speaking in tongues, the only moment when madness is cute. I like flowers. I like the Chinese Camellia, rare and pinkish, a child of the mountain forest, an emblem of spring.