… Her Heart Remained Empty Once More,

Writing History Is Like Drinking An Ocean And Pissing A Cupful.

Of All The Icy Blasts That Blow On Love, A Request For Money Is The Most Chilling.

I Go Dreaming Into The Future, Where I See Nothing, Nothing. I Have No Plans, No Idea, No Project, And, What Is Worse, No Ambition. Something – The Eternal ‘what’s The Use?’ – Sets Its Bronze Barrier Across Every Avenue That I Open Up In The Realm Of Hypothesis.

The Author, In His Work, Must Be Like God In The Universe, Present Everywhere And Visible Nowhere.

I Spent The Morning Putting In A Comma And The Afternoon Removing It.