To Think Is To Be Sick.

Our Bones Ache Only While The Flesh Is On Them. Stretch It As Thin As The Temple Flesh Of An Ailing Woman And Still It Serves To Ache The Bone And To Move The Bone About; And In Like Manner The Night Is A Skin Pulled Over The Head Of Day That The Day May Be In A Torment. We Will Find No Comfort Until The Night Melts Away; Until The Fury Of The Night Rots Out Its Fire.

The Seal, She Lounges Like A Bride,much Too Docile, There's No Doubt;madame Récamier, On Side,(if Such She Has), And Bottom Out.

Life Is Not To Be Told, Call It As Loud As You Like, It Will Not Tell Itself.

“god,” She Cried, “what Is Love? Man Seeking His Own Head? The Human Head, So Rented By Misery That Even The Teeth Weigh! She Couldn't Tell Me The Truth Because She Had Never Planned It; Her Life Was A Continual Accident, And How Can You Be Prepared For That? Everything We Can't Bear In This World, Some Day We Find In One Person, And Love It All At Once.”

I Couldn't Ever Boil Potatoes Over The Heat Of Your Affection. Your Love Would Never Bridge A Gap; It Wouldn't Even Fill Up The Hole That The Mice Came Through.