In Fact Living Is Dying.

One Sometimes Weeps Over One's Illusions With As Much Bitterness As Over A Death.

The Bed Comprehends Our Whole Life, For We Were Born In It, We Live In It, And We Shall Die In It

It Is The Lives We Encounter That Make Life Worth Living.

We Breathe Love As We Breathe Air; We Hold It In Ourselves As We Hold Our Thoughts. Nothing More Exists For Us.

And Taking Her Friend’s Hand, She Put It On Her Breast, On That Firm Round Covering Of A Woman’s Heart Which The Male Often Finds So Satisfying That He Makes No Attempt To Find What Lies Beneath It.