I Don't Differentiate In The Way That

My Books Happen. They Tend To Blast In From Nowhere, Seize Me By The Throat, And Howl 'write Me! Write Me Now!' But They Rarely Stand Still Long Enough For Me To See What And Who They Are, Before They Hurtle Away Again. And So I Spend A Lot Of Time Running After Them, Like A Thrown Rider After An Escaped Horse, Saying 'wait For Me! Wait For Me!' And Waving My Notebook In The Air.

The Touch Of Evil Poisons By The Idea Of It. Reject The Idea, And You've Rejected The Evil

...there Remained A Strange Formality Between Them, And Her Pleasure In His Presence Felt Too Much Like Missing Him Had Felt During The Last Week.

I Like That: A Little Pressure On The Understood Boundaries Of Yourself. Sounded Like Something Out Of A Self-awareness Class, Probably With Yoga. See What Kind Of A Pretzel You Can Tie Yourself Into And Press On The Understood... I Was Raving, If Only To Myself.

It Is A Much More Straightforward Thing To Be A Dog, And A Dog's Love, Once Given, Is Not Reconsidered.