What Is So Real As The Cry

Beached Under The Spumy Blooms, We Lie Sea-sick And Fever-dry.

Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is In Me. God, Must I Lose It In Cooking Scrambled Eggs For A Man.

If Only A Group Of People Were More Important To Me Than The Idea Of A Novel, I Might Begin A Novel.

Love Is A Shadow. How You Lie And Cry After It

Jealousy Can Open The Blood, It Can Make Black Roses.