at fifty I approach myself, br eighteen years of age, br seated despondently on the concrete steps br of my father's house, br wishing to be gone from there br into my own life, br and I tell my young self, br Nothing will turn out right, br you'll want to avenge yourself, br on those close to you especially, br and they will want to die br of shock and grief. You will fall br to pleading and tears of self-pity, br filled with yourself, a passionate stranger. br My eighteen-year-old self stands up br from the concrete steps and says, br Go to hell, br and I walk off.