The Man Has A Theory. The Woman

If Your Way Of Life Is Writing, Then Everything That Happens Becomes A Sentence.

They Were Two Superior Eels At The Bottom Of The Tank And They Recognized Each Other Like Italics.

Then A Miracle Occurred In The Form Of A Plate Of Sandwiches. Geryon Took Three And Buried His Mouth In A Delicious Block Of White Bread Filled With Tomatoes And Butter And Salt. He Thought About How Delicious It Was, How He Liked Slippery Foods, How Slipperiness Can Be Of Different Kinds. I Am A Philosopher Of Sandwiches, He Decided. Things Good On The Inside.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

What Would It Be Like To Live In A Library Of Melted Books. With Sentences Streaming Over The Floor And All The Punctuation Settled To The Bottom As A Residue. It Would Be Confusing. Unforgivable. A Great Adventure.