Always, Worlds Within Worlds.

You Have To Taste The Sour Urine Before You Break The Jug.

A Monster Lies In Wait In Me,a Stew Of Wounds And Misery.but Fiercer Still In Life And Limb,the Me That Lies In Wait In Him

I Have The Normal Complement Of Anxieties, Neuroses, Psychoses And Whatever Else - But I'm Absolutely Nothing Special.

Perhaps Sunlight Had Always Been Luminous, And Doorways Signs Of Greater Passage Than That Of One Room To Another. But She’d Not Noticed It Until Now.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.