Life Is More Complicated Than

Gamblers And Lovers Really Play To Lose.

I Have Been Thinking About The Girl I Met Last Night In The Mirror: Dark On The Marble-ivory White: Glossy Black Hair: Deep Suspiring Eyes In Which One's Glances Sink Because They Are Nervous, Curious, Turned To Sexual Curiosity.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.

The Appalling Thing Is The Degree Of Charity Women Are Capable Of. You See It All The Time... Love Lavished On Absolute Fools. Love's A Charity Ward, You Know.

A Critic Is A Lug-worm In The Liver Of Literature.