Their Friendship Was Like A

He Put One Hand Lightly On The Back Of Her Neck And Simultaneously She Placed One Hand Lightly On His Hip, And They Kissed In The Street As All Around Them People Hurried Home In The Summer Light, And It Was The Sweetest Kiss That Either Of Them Would Ever Know. This Is Where It All Begins. Everything Starts Here, Today. And Then It Was Over.

Work Hard At . . . Something.

The Sad Fact Is That I Love Dickens And Donne And Keats And Eliot And Forster And Conrad And Fitzgerald And Kafka And Wilde And Orwell And Waugh And Marvell And Greene And Sterne And Shakespeare And Webster And Swift And Yeats And Joyce And Hardy, Really, Really Love Them. It’s Just That They Don’t Love Me Back.

I Contemplate The Idea That Maybe I'm An Alcoholic. I Get This Occassionally, The Need To Define Myself As Something-or-the-other, And At Various Times In My Life Have Wondered If I'm A Goth, A Homosexul, A Jew, A Catholic Or A Manic Depressive, Whether I Am Adopted, Or Have A Hole In My Heart, Or Possess The Ability To Move Objects With The Power Of My Mind, And Have Always, Most Regretfully, Come To The Conclusion That I'm None Of The Above. The Fact Is I'm Actually Not Anything.

You Must Do What You Enjoy.