If A Person Continues To

The Truly Faithless One Is The One Who Makes Love To Only A Fraction Of You. And Denies The Rest.

We Love Best Those Who Are, Or Act For Us, A Self We Do Not Wish To Be Or Act Out.

I Like Extravagance. Letters Which Give The Postman A Stiff Back To Carry, Books Which Overflow From Their Covers, Sexuality Which Bursts The Thermometers.

To Love And To Labor Is The Sum Of Living.

I Only Regret That Everybody Wants To Deprive Me Of The Journal, Which Is The Only Steadfast Friend I Have, The Only One Which Makes My Life Bearable, Because My Happiness With Human Beings Is So Precarious, My Confiding Moods Rare, And The Least Sign Of Non-interest Is Enough To Silence Me. In The Journal I Am At Ease.