To Love Means To Embrace And At

At Bottom Is The Best Soil To Sow And Grow Something New Again. In That Sense, Hitting Bottom, While Extremely Painful, Is Also The Sowing Ground.

A Woman Who Is Starved For Her Real Soul-life May Look 'cleaned Up And Combed' On The Outside, But On The Inside She Is Filled With Dozens Of Pleading Hands And Empty Mouths.

The Body Is A Multilingual Being. It Speaks Through Its Color And Its Temperature, The Flush Of Recognition, The Glow Of Love, The Ash Of Pain, The Heat Of Arousal, The Coldness Of Nonconviction. . . . It Speaks Through The Leaping Of The Heart, The Falling Of The Spirits, The Pit At The Center, And Rising Hope.

When A Woman Is Frozen Of Feeling, When She Can No Longer Feel Herself, When Her Blood, Her Passion, No Longer Reach The Extremities Of Her Psyche, When She Is Desperate; Then A Fantasy Life Is Far More Pleasurable Than Anything Else She Can Set Her Sights Upon. Her Little Match Lights, Because They Have No Wood To Burn, Instead Burn Up The Psyche As Though It Were A Big Dry Log. The Psyche Begins To Play Tricks On Itself; It Lives Now In The Fantasy Fire Of All Yearning Fulfilled. This Kind Of Fantasizing Is Like A Lie: If You Tell It Often Enough, You Begin To Believe It.

It Is Worse To Stay Where One Does Not Belong At All Than To Wander About Lost For A While And Looking For The Psychic And Soulful Kinship One Requires