Cooks Must Feed Their Egos As Well

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...

I Wrote Like A Junkie. I Had To Have My Daily Fix.

At Present, I Myself Do Not Know Of Any Local Witches Or Warlocks, But There Are Several People Who Seem To Have An Uncanny Power Over Food.

Life Is Hard, We Say. An Oyster's Life Is Worse. She Lives Motionless, Soundless, Her Own Cold Ugly Shape Her Only Dissipation.

Old Age Is More Bearable If It Can Be Helped By An Early Acceptance Of Being Loved And Of Loving.