The Sun Gives You Ulcers, The Wind

I Have Stitched Life Into Me Like A Rare Organ

If You Love Her", I Said, "you'll Love Somebody Else Someday.

Writing, Then, Was A Substitute For Myself: If You Don't Love Me, Love My Writing & Love Me For My Writing. It Is Also Much More: A Way Of Ordering And Reordering The Chaos Of Experience.

You Know What Lies Are For.

Yes, There Is Joy, Fulfillment And Companionship But The Loneliness Of The Soul In Its Appalling Self-consciousness Is Horrible And Overpowering.