It's Lovely. I Hate It.

If I Ever Get To 100, I'd Want To Be Filled With Wonder And Wild, Adolescent, Wide-eyed Interest In Newness. So Let's Keep The Flame Burning. Let's Stop Thinking Everyone Over 29, Or 49, Has To Be Reinforced By Concrete.

The So-called Real World. Human Misery And Sadness. Blind Politics And General Cruelty.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Get The Blame For Being What It Is-- The Colour Of A Kiss, The Shadow Of A Flame. A Rose May Earn Another Name, So Call It Love; So Call It Love I Will, And Love Is Like The Sea, Which Changes Constantly, And Yet Is Still The Same.

He Sat By Her, Watching Every Gesture She Made, As If He Would Paint Her Portrait Afterward.

Ecstasy And Vulnerability Belonged In The Same Dish. The Fear The Cup Would Be Snatched Away Was What Gave The Wine Its Savor.