Making Love, We Are All More Alike

As Subjects, We All Live In Suspense, From Day To Day, From Hour To Hour; In Other Words, We Are The Hero Of Our Own Story. We Cannot Believe That It Is Finished, That We Are 'finished,' Even Though We May Say So; We Expect Another Chapter, Another Installment, Tomorrow Or Next Week.

Venice, As A City, Was A Foundling, Floating Upon The Waters Like Moses In His Basket Among The Bulrushes.

America Is Indeed A Revelation, Though Not Quite The One That Was Planned. Given A Clean Slate, Man, It Was Hoped, Would Write The Future. Instead, He Has Written His Past.

With Extramarital Courtship, The Deception Was Prolonged Where It Had Been Ephemeral, Necessary Where It Had Been Frivolous, Conspiratorial Where It Had Been Lonely.

The Furniture And Trappings In The Apartment Are All In A State Of Flux - Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. Nothing Is Anchored To Its Place, Not Even The Coffee-pot, Which Floats Off And Returns, On The Tide Of The Signora's Marine Nature.