I Tried Self-sacrifice A Couple Of Times

Sex And Writing Live On Playful Cruelties.

I Was Once In Love With Books. Now They Go Their Way And I Go Mine.

Dancers Dance Through Their Pain I Shrink From Mine.

The Harp Is An Insipid Instrument--no Good For Dancing, Feasting, Or Marching, Only For Sitting Primly In A Parlor Or On A Cloud.

Change Often Makes Accepted Customs Into Crimes.