When You're Writing, It's As If You're

Why Are You Not Smarter? It's Only The Rich Who Can't Afford To Be Smart. They're Compromised. They Got Locked Years Ago Into Privilege. They Have To Protect Their Belongings. No One Is Meaner Than The Rich. Trust Me. But They Have To Follow The Rules Of Their Shitty Civilised World. They Declare War, They Have Honour, And They Can't Leave. But You Two. We Three. We're Free.

You Can See That The Care He Took Defiling The Beauty He Had Forced In Them Was As Precise And Clean As His Good Hands Which At Night Had Developed The Negatives, Floating The Sheets In The Correct Acids And Watching The Faces And Breasts And Pubic Triangles And Sofas Emerge. The Making And Destroying Coming From The Same Source, Same Lust, Same Surgery His Brain Was Capable Of. (on New Orleans Photographer E. J. Bellocq)

A Love Story Is Not About Those Who Lost Their Heart But About Those Who Find That Sullen Inhabitant Who, When It Is Stumbled Upon, Means The Body Can Fool No One, Can Fool Nothing—not The Wisdom Of Sleep Or The Habit Of Social Graces. It Is A Consuming Of Oneself And The Past.

A Writer Uses A Pen Instead Of A Scalpel Or Blow Torch.

It's An Odd State To Be In, Blowing The Whistle On Your Home Country.