I Tend Not To Know What The

When You're Writing, It's As If You're Within A Kind Of Closed World.

A Blind Lover, Don't Know What I Love Till I Write It Out

Fathers Die.you Keep On Loving Them In Any Way You Can.you Can't Hide Him Away In Your Heart.

You Can See That The Care He Took Defiling The Beauty He Had Forced In Them Was As Precise And Clean As His Good Hands Which At Night Had Developed The Negatives, Floating The Sheets In The Correct Acids And Watching The Faces And Breasts And Pubic Triangles And Sofas Emerge. The Making And Destroying Coming From The Same Source, Same Lust, Same Surgery His Brain Was Capable Of. (on New Orleans Photographer E. J. Bellocq)

I Believe This. When We Meet Those We Fall In Love With, There Is An Aspect Of Our Spirit That Is Historian, A Bit Of A Pedant Who Reminisces Or Remembers A Meeting When The Other Has Passed By Innocently…but All Parts Of The Body Must Be Ready For The Other, All Atoms Must Jump In One Direction For Desire To Occur.