At The Best Of Times, Spring Hurts

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.

I See Her As A Series Of Marvellous Shapes Formed At Random In The Kaleidoscope Of Desire.

There Was A House We All Had In Common And It Was Called The Past, Even Though We'd Lived In Different Rooms.

The Tiger Will Never Lie Down With The Lamb; He Acknowledges No Pact That Is Not Reciprocal. The Lamb Must Learn To Run With The Tigers.

Anticipation Is The Greater Part Of Pleasure.