In This World, There Is A Kind

I Write Everything With Fountain Pens. I Don't Know Why. I've Done It Since I Was Bar Mitzvahed. I Was Given A Fountain Pen, A Parker Fountain Pen, And I Loved It, And I've Never Liked Writing Anything With Pencils Or Ball-points.

I Don't Know What Will Happen To Me Without You. Only You. Only You Love Me. Out Of Everyone In The World.

Love Is The World's Infinite Mutability; Lies, Hatred, Murder Even, Are All Knit Up In It; It Is The Inevitable Blossoming Of Its Opposites, A Magnificent Rose Smelling Faintly Of Blood.

Imagination Can't Create Anything New, Can It? It Only Recycles Bits And Pieces From The World And Reassembles Them Into Visions... So When We Thing We've Escaped The Unbearable Ordinariness And, Well, Untruthfulness Of Our Lives, It's Really Only The Same Old Ordinariness And Falseness Rearranged Into The Appearance Of Novelty And Truth. Nothing Unknown Is Knowable.

I Find Writing Very Difficult. It's Hard And It Hurts Sometimes, And It's Scary Because Of The Fear Of Failure And The Very Unpleasant Feeling That You May Have Reached The Limit Of Your Abilities.