He Says He’s Lonely, Horribly Lonely Because

Suddenly, All At Once, She Knows, Knows That He Doesn't Understand Her, That He Never Will, That He Lacks The Power To Understand Such Perverseness. And That He Can Never Move Fast Enough To Catch Her.

Alcohol Doesn't Console, It Doesn't Fill Up Anyone's Psychological Gaps, All It Replaces Is The Lack Of God. It Doesn't Comfort Man. On The Contrary, It Encourages Him In His Folly, It Transports Him To The Supreme Regions Where He Is Master Of His Own Destiny.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

Madness Is Like Intelligence, You Know. You Can't Explain It. Just Like Intelligence. It Comes On You, It Fills You, And Then You Understand It. But When It Goes Away You Can't Understand It At All Any Longer.

Life Is Only Lived Full-time By Women With Children.