Sex Is A Momentary Itch, Love Never

Sex Stops When You Pull Up Your Pants, Love Never Lets You Go.

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

It's Never Pleasant To Have One's Unquestioning Beliefs Put In Their Historical Context, As I Know From Experience, I Can Assure You.

Death Has This Much To Be Said For It: You Don't Have To Get Out Of Bed For It. Wherever You Happen To Be They Bring It To You—free.

Doing What You Wanted To Do Was The Only Training, And The Only Preliminary, Needed For Doing More Of What You Wanted To Do.