Sure, Go Ahead, Simulate Life, Using Only

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

Virginia Woolf Came Along In The Early Part Of The Century And Essentially Said Through Her Writing, Yes, Big Books Can Be Written About The Traditional Big Subjects. There Is War. There Is The Search For God. These Are All Very Important Things.

The Kiss Was Innocent--innocent Enough--but It Was Also Full Of Something Not Unlike What Virginia Wants From London, From Life; It Was Full Of A Love Complex And Ravenous, Ancient, Neither This Nor That. It Will Serve As This Afternoon's Manifestation Of The Central Mystery Itself, The Elusive Brightness That Shines From The Edges Of Certain Dreams; The Brightness Which, When We Awaken, Is Already Fading From Our Minds, And Which We Rise In The Hope Of Finding, Perhaps Today, This New Day In Which Anything Might Happen, Anything At All.

He's One Of Those Smart, Drifty Young People Who, After Certain Deliberations, Decides He Wants To Do Something In The Arts But Won't, Possibly Can't, Think In Terms Of An Actual Job; Who Seems To Imagine That Youth And Brains And Willingness Will Simply Summon An Occupation, The Precise And Perfect Nature Of Which Will Reveal Itself In Its Own Time.

I Feel Like There's Something Terrible And Wonderful And Amazing That's Just Beyond My Grasp. I Have Dreams About It. I Do Dream, By The Way. It Hovers Over Me At Odd Moments. And Then It's Gone. I Feel Like I'm Always On The Brink Of Something That Never Arrives. I Want To Either Have It Or Be Free Of It.