The Past Is Still, For Us, A

I Want To Die On Your Chest But Not Yet She Wrote Sometime In The 13th Century Of Our Love

There's More Danger In The Violence You Don't Face.

What Night Gave Rafael Was A Formlessness In Which Everything Had A Purpose. As If Darkness Had A Hidden Musical Language.

I Often Need A Limited Space. It's Like Having A House To Roam Around In And Reinvent And Have Things To Happen In, Kind Of Like A French Farce. Doors Opening, Doors Closing, New People Arriving, And Disappearing, And So Forth.

I See The Poem Or The Novel Ending With An Open Door.