Drinking Isn't Necessarily The Same As Wanting

I Meet You. I Remember You. Who Are You? You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. How Could I Know This City Was Tailor-made For Love? How Could I Know You Fit My Body Like A Glove? I Like You. How Unlikely. I Like You. How Slow All Of A Sudden. How Sweet. You Cannot Know. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. I Have Time. Please, Devour Me. Deform Me To The Point Of Ugliness. Why Not You? Why Not You In This City And In This Night, So Like Other Cities And Other Nights You Can Hardly Tell The Difference? I Beg Of You.

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

I Know It's Not Clothes That Make Women Beautiful Or Otherwise, Nor Beauty Care, Nor Expensive Creams, Nor The Distinction Of Costliness Of Their Finery. I Know The Problem Lies Elsewhere. I Don't Know Where. I Only Know It Isn't Where Women Think.

I See Journalists As The Manual Workers, The Laborers Of The Word. Journalism Can Only Be Literature When It Is Passionate.

I'm Still There, Watching Those Possessed Children, As Far Away From The Mystery Now As I Was Then. I've Never Written, Though I Thought I Wrote, Never Loved, Though I Thought I Loved, Never Done Anything But Wait Outside The Closed Door.