In Love There Are No

All That Remains Of That Minute Is Time In All Its Purity, Bone-white Time.

We’re In The Vanguard Of A Nameless Battle, A Battle Without Arms Or Bloodshed Or Glory: We’re In The Vanguard Of Waiting.

Men Like Women Who Write. Even Though They Don't Say So. A Writer Is A Foreign Country.

We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.

In Heterosexual Love There's No Solution. Man And Woman Are Irreconcilable, And It's The Doomed Attempt To Do The Impossible, Repeated In Each New Affair, That Lends Heterosexual Love Its Grandeur.