There Are No Days More Full Than

The Repeated Lies Become History, But They Don't Necessarily Become The Truth.

The City Was Bigger Than Its Buildings, Bigger Than Its Inhabitants Too. It Had Its Own Nuances. It Accepted Whatever Came Its Way, The Crime And The Violence And The Little Shocks Of Good That Crawled Out From Underneath The Everyday.

Long Ago, Long Ago. The Simple Things Come Back To Us. They Rest For A Moment By Our Ribcages Then Suddenly Reach In And Twist Our Hearts A Notch Backward.

The Essence Of Intelligence Was To Know When, Or If, To Expose Even The Heart's Deep Need For Instruction.

Yet She Likes Complications. She Wishes She Could Turn And Say: I Like People Who Unbalance Me.