Ah Those Knock-out Body Fluids: Blood, Sperm,

Erotic Play Discloses A Nameless World Which Is Revealed By The Nocturnal Language Of Lovers. Such Language Is Not Written Down. It Is Whispered Into The Ear At Night In A Hoarse Voice. At Dawn It Is Forgotten.

On Him, Under Him, With His Mouth Pressed To Hers, He Sang To Her Uncouth Songs That Moved Through Her Body.

Added To The Moral Solitude Of The Murderer Comes The Solitude Of The Artist, Which Can Acknowledge No Authority, Save That Of Another Artist.

We Know That Their Adventures Are Childish. They Themselves Are Fools. They Are Ready To Kill Or Be Killed Over A Card-game In Which An Opponent - Or They Themselves - Was Cheating. Yet, Thanks To Such Fellows, Tragedies Are Possible.

When I Beheld You, Suddenly - For Perhaps A Second - I Had The Strength To Reject Everything That Wasn't You And To Laugh At The Illusion. But My Shoulders Are Very Frail. I Was Unable To Bear The Weight Of The World's Condemnation. And I Began To Hate You When Everything About You Would Have Kindled My Love And When Love Would Have Made Men's Contempt Unbearable, And Their Contempt Would Have Made My Love Unbearable. The Fact Is, I Hate You.