At The Best Of Times, Spring Hurts

At The Best Of Times, Spring Hurts Depressives.

Fine Art, That Exists For Itself Alone, Is Art In A Final State Of Impotence. If Nobody, Including The Artist, Acknowledges Art As A Means Of Knowing The World, Then Art Is Relegated To A Kind Of Rumpus Room Of The Mind And The Irresponsibility Of The Artist And The Irrelevance Of Art To Actual Living Becomes Part And Parcel Of The Practice Of Art.

I Think I Want To Be In Love With You But I Don't Know How.

I Will Tell You What Jeanne Was Like. She Was Like A Piano In A Country Where Everyone Has Had Their Hands Cut Off.

He Was A Lovely Man In Many Ways. But He Kept On Insisting On Forgiving Me When There Was Nothing To Forgive.