Truth Is A Woman. That Is Why

Love Joins And Then Divides. How Else Would We Be Growing?

Lovers Can Find Nothing To Say To Each Other That Has Not Been Said And Unsaid A Thousand Times Over. Kisses Were Invented To Translate Such Nothings Into Wounds

A Taste Older Than Meat, Older Than Wine. A Taste As Old As Cold Water.

How Grudging Memory Is, And How Bitterly She Clutches The Raw Material Of Her Daily Work.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.