My Pleasures Disappeared With My Vices.

You Can't Spend Your Life Beating Yourself Up For Something That Happened Yesterday. You Die If You Don't Follow Your Desire.

For Mum, Life Was Fundamentally Hell. You Went Blind, You Got Raped, People Forgot Your Birthday, Nixon Got Elected, Your Husband Fled With A Blonde From Beckenham, And Then You Got Old, You Couldn't Walk And You Died.

If You Never Left Anything Or Anyone There Would Be No Room For The New. Naturally, To Move On Is An Infidelity -- To Others, To The Past, To Old Notions Of Oneself. Perhaps Every Day Should Contain At Least One Essential Infidelity Or Necessary Betrayal. It Would Be An Optimistic, Hopeful Act, Guaranteeing Belief In The Future -- A Declaration That Things Can Be Not Only Different But Better.

If Jealousy Was The Vindaloo Of Love, I'd Imagined Her Tongue Burning, And Such A Fire Forcing Her To Spill Her Truth.

Love Cannot Be Measured By Its Duration.