I Am Not A Born Writer, But

As For Death, One Gets Used To It, Even If It Is Only Other People Is Death You Get Used To.

Judges Don't Age. Time Decorates Them.

The Press Blew, The Public Stared, Hands Flew Out Like A Million Little Fishes After Bread.

It's Not Till Sex Has Died Out Between A Man And A Woman That They Can Really Love. And Now I Mean Affection. Now I Mean To Be Fond Of (as One Is Fond Of Oneself) -to Hope, To Be Disappointed, To Live Inside The Other Heart. When I Look Back On The Pain Of Sex, The Love Like A Wild Fox So Ready To Bite, The Antagonism That Sits Like A Twin Beside Love, And Contrast It With Affection, So Deeply Unrepeatable, Of Two People Who Have Lived A Life Together (and Of Whom One Must Die) It's The Affection I Find Richer. It's That I Would Have Again. Not All Those Doubtful Rainbow Colors.

Things Come Suitable To The Time.