Sunday, The Day For The Language Of

I Do Not Want To Have The Feeling Of Writing "for Eternity," So To Speak.

Anna Despises Two Classes Of People: First, Those Who Own Their Own Homes And Have Cars And Families, And Second, Everybody Else. Constantly She Is On The Verge Of Exploding. With Rage. A Pool Of Pure Red. The Pool Is Filled With Speechlessness That Talks Away At Her Nonstop.

Vice Is Basically The Love Of Failure.

Only He Who Loves And Is Loved For His Own Sake Can Be Happy, And What Produces That Happiness Is Not So Much The Sense Of Sexual Communion As Of Two People Being Together ... The Sexual Act Viewed As A Whole Probably Affords Less Happiness Than A Totally Ordinary Kiss Or Often Indeed One Simple Word From The One You Love.

Every Day, A Piece Of Music, A Short Story, Or A Poem Dies Because Its Existence Is No Longer Justified In Our Time. And Things That Were Once Considered Immortal Have Become Mortal Again, No One Knows Them Anymore. Even Though They Deserve To Survive.