Lava Bread Makes You Passionate.

My Religion Makes No Sense And Does Not Help Me Therefore I Pursue It.

I Never Really Got Over The Fun Of Making Letters.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

They Were Two Superior Eels At The Bottom Of The Tank And They Recognized Each Other Like Italics.

I Don't Know That We Really Think Any Thoughts; We Think Connections Between Thoughts. That's Where The Mind Moves, That's What's New, And The Thoughts Themselves Have Probably Been There In My Head Or Lots Of Other People's Heads For A Long Time.