Sincerity Is Not A Spontaneous Flower Nor

The Lovesick, The Betrayed, And The Jealous All Smell Alike.

By An Image We Hold On To Our Lost Treasures, But It Is The Wrenching Loss That Forms The Image, Composes, Binds The Bouquet.

Beautiful December Grapes, Blue As Plums, Every Grape A Little Skinful Of Sweet, Tasteless Water

Voluptuaries, Consumed By Their Senses, Always Begin By Flinging Themselves With A Great Display Of Frenzy Into An Abyss. But They Survive, They Come To The Surface Again. And They Develop A Routine Of The Abyss: It's Four O Clock. At Five I Have My Abyss.

There Is No Need To Waste Pity On Young Girls Who Are Having Their Moments Of Disillusionment, For In Another Moment They Will Recover Their Illusion.