Description Is Hard. Remember That

I Think You Know Everything At Eight. But Is Is Hidden From You, Sealed Up, In A Way You Have To Cut Yourself Open To Find.

Nothing Had Happened Yet In My Life Except The Need To Get Out Of It.

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.

We Have Lost The Art Of Public Tenderness, These Small Gestures Of Wiping And Washing; We Have Forgotten How Abjectly The Body Welcomes A Formal Touch.

There's Quite A Big Gap When It Comes To That Dual Identity Of Mother And Child, Or Even A Pregnant Woman, Or A Nursing Woman. It Kind Of Begs The Question Of That Very Strong Western Idea Of The Individual Self.