In Love There Are No Vacations. No

...as Long As Nothing Happens Between Them, The Memory Is Cursed With What Hasn't Happened.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

I Suddenly Remember Something I've Been Told About Fear. That Amid A Hail Of Machine Gun Fire You Notice The Existence Of Your Skin.

She Represents The Un-vowed Aspiration Of The Male Human Being, His Potential Infidelity - And Infidelity Of A Very Special Kind, Which Would Lead Him To The Opposite Of His Wife, To The Woman Of Wax Whom He Could Model At Will, Make And Unmake In Any Way He Wished, Even Unto Death.

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.