Love Is Worth Whatever It Costs.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

To Jealousy, Nothing Is More Frightful Than Laughter.

I Had A Strong Desire To Write And Some Free Time.

For Me Writing Is A Question Of Finding A Certain Rhythm. I Compare It To The Rhythms Of Jazz.

Love Is Worth Whatever It Costs.