For Some Reason All The Middle-aged Women

It Was As If I Were Writing Letters To Hold Together The Pieces Of My Crumbling Life.

It Was A Small Room With Dim Light Coming In The Window, Reminiscent Of Old Polish Films.

How Many Sundays - How Many Hundreds Of Sundays Like This - Lay Ahead Of Me? “quiet, Peaceful, And Lonely,” I Said Aloud To Myself. On Sundays, I Didn't Wind My Spring.

You Can Hide As Cleverly As You Like, But In The Final Analysis Mimicry Is Deception, Pure And Simple. It Doesn't Solve A Thing.

Even If You Managed To Escape From One Cage, Weren't You Just In Another, Larger One?