When I'm Writing, The Darkness Is Always

Let The Flesh Instruct The Mind.

When We Talk About Our Lives, Long Or Short, Brief And Tragic Or Enduring Beyond Comprehension, We Impose A Continuity On Them, And That Continuity Is A Lie.

I Was In The Black Silence Of A Medieval Street, And Blindly I Followed Its Sharp Turns, Comforted By The Height Of Its Narrow Tenements, Which Seemed At Any Moment Capable Of Falling Together, Closing This Alleyway Under Indifferent Stars Like A Seam.

I'm Always Looking, And I'm Always Asking Questions.

He Had Grieved For Me, I'll Give Him That Much. But Then He Is So Good At Grieving! He Wears Woe As Others Wear Velvet; Sorrow Flatters Him Like The Light Of Candles; Tears Become Him Like Jewels.