Death Is The Only Real Elegance.

Don't You Think I Was Made For You? I Feel Like You Had Me Ordered - And I Was Delivered To You - To Be Worn. I Want You To Wear Me, Like A Watch-charm Or A Buttonhole Bouquet.

There's Nothing On Earth To Do Here But Look At The View And Eat. You Can Imagine The Result Since I Do Not Like To Look At Views.

Women, Despite The Fact That Nine Out Of Ten Of Them Go Through Life With A Death-bed Air Either Of Snatching-the-last-moment Or With Martyr-resignation, Do Not Die Tomorrow--or The Next Day. They Have To Live On To Any One Of Many Bitter Ends.

Women Sometimes Seem To Share A Quiet, Unalterable Dogma Of Persecution That Endows Even The Most Sophisticated Of Them With The Inarticulate Poignancy Of The Peasant.

We Walked At Night Towards A Cafe Blooming With Japanese Lanterns And I Followed Your White Shoes Gleaming Like Radium In The Damp Darkness. Rising Off The Water, Lights Flickered An Invitation Far Enough Away To Be Interpreted As We Liked; To Shimmer Glamourously Behind The Silhouette Of Retrospective Good Times When We Still Believed In Summer Hotels And The Philosophies Of Popular Songs.