A Light Snow, A Snow So Faint

The Summer Has Ended. The Garden Withers. The Mornings Become Chill. I Am Thirty, I Am Thirty-four -the Years Turn Dry As Leaves.

I'm A Frotteur, Someone Who Likes To Rub Words In His Hand, To Turn Them Around And Feel Them, To Wonder If That Really Is The Best Word Possible.

There Comes A Time When You Realize That Everything Is A Dream, And Only Those Things Preserved In Writing Have Any Possibility Of Being Real.

I Like Aristocracy. I Like The Beauty Of Aristocracy. I Like The Hierarchical Feeling.

I Like To Write About Certain Things That If They Are Not Written About Are Not Going To Exist.