We're All Immortal Until We Die.

Sex Without Love Is Like A Goddamn Business Transaction. And Sometimes Both Parties Feel As If They Got A Good Deal, But That Doesn't Make It Any Less So.

She Has Her Own Glamour, Willy Lad. All Poets Do, All The Bards And Artists, All The Musicians Who Truly Take The Music Into Their Own Hearts. They All Straddle The Border Of Faerie, And They See Into Both Worlds. Not Dependably Into Either, Perhaps, But That Uncertainty Keeps Them Honest And At A Distance.

Coincidence Is The Word We Use When We Can't See The Levers And Pulleys.

Sometimes, She Reflected, She Dressed For Courage, Sometimes For Success, And Sometimes For The Consolation Of Knowing That Whatever Else Went Wrong, At Least She Liked Her Clothes.

It Was Like Him, Too, To Love Her And Admit To It Before He Knew If She Loved Him. Maybe Only Mortals Expected To Barter Their Hearts.