I Refused To Believe That Love Could

Writing Is A Form Of Therapy; Sometimes I Wonder How All Those Who Do Not Write, Compose Or Paint Can Manage To Escape The Madness, Melancholia, The Panic And Fear Which Is Inherent In A Human Situation.

There Is A Point Of No Return, Unremarked At The Time, In Most Lives.

I Thought I Am Kissing Pain And Pain Belongs To You As Happiness Never Does. I Love You In Your Pain. I Could Almost Taste Metal And Salt In The Skin, And I Thought, How Good You Are. You Might Have Killed Us With Happiness, But You Let Us Be With You In Pain.

We'd Forgive Most Things If We Knew The Facts.

He Had Stylized Himself--life Was Easier That Way. He Had Chosen A Physical Mould Just As Writer Chooses A Technical Form.