And Silence, Like Darkness, Can Be Kind;

I Began To Enjoy My Own Generosity; I Felt The Pleasure Of Pleasing Others, Especially As This Was Accompanied By Money-power. I Was Paying For Them; They Were Grateful, They Had To Be; And They Could No Longer See Me As A Failure.

If Jealousy Was The Vindaloo Of Love, I'd Imagined Her Tongue Burning, And Such A Fire Forcing Her To Spill Her Truth.

Nothing Can Be Repaired Or Advanced But Only Accepted

But In Love Each Moment Is Magnified, And Every Gesture, Word And Syllable Is Examined Like A Speech By The President.

I Guess Writing Is A Kind Of Therapy In The Sense That There Are Things You Need To Say And You Say Them, And Better Out Than In.