Lolita, Light Of My Life, Fire Of

If A Violin String Could Ache, I Would Be That String.

I Should Allow Only My Heart To Have Imagination; And For The Rest Rely On Memory, That Long Drawn Sunset Of One's Personal Truth.

The Thought, When Written Down, Becomes Less Oppressive, But Some Thoughts Are Like A Cancerous Tumor: You Express Is, You Excise It, And It Grows Back Worse Than Before.

I See Nothing For The Treatment Of My Misery But The Melancholy And Very Local Palliative Of Articulate Art.

Why Do Those People Guess So Much And Shave So Little, And Are So Disdainful Of Hearing Aids?