Next Week, Or Next Month, Or Next

I've Been So Ridiculous All My Life That A Little Bit More Or A Little Bit Less Hardly Matters Now.

After All This, What Happened? What Happened Was That, As Soon As I Had The Slightest Chance Of A Place To Hide In, I Crept Into It And Hid. Well, Sometimes It's A Fine Day Isn't It? Sometimes The Skies Are Blue. Sometimes The Air Is Light, Easy To Breathe. And There Is Always Tomorrow.

She Haunted Him, As An Ungenerous Action Haunts One.

She’ll Have No Lover, For I Don’t Want Her And She’ll See No Other.

For The First Time She Had Dimly Realized That Only The Hopeless Are Starkly Sincere And That Only The Unhappy Can Either Give Or Take Sympathy--even Some Of The Bitter And Dangerous Voluptuousness Of Misery.