Sincerity Is Not A Spontaneous Flower Nor

If He's Getting Married, He's Not Longer Interesting.

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.

When She Raises Her Eyelids It's As If She Were Taking Off All Her Clothes.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

Hope Costs Nothing.