But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

I Work All Day, And Get Half-drunk At Night.

Now, Helpless In The Hollow Of An Unarmorial Age, A Trough Of Smoke In Slow Suspended Skeins Above Their Scrap Of History, Only An Attitude Remains: Time Has Transfigured Them Into Untruth. The Stone Finality They Hardly Meant Has Come To Be Their Final Blazon, And To Prove Our Almost-instinct Almost True: What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

I Wonder Love Can Have Already Set In Dreams, When We've Not Met More Times Than I Can Number On One Hand.