Love Is Art, Not Truth.

All The World's A Stage We're Going Through.

Blasts From The Past Were Like The Rooms One Entered And Re-entered In Dreams: They Would Not Stay Nailed Down. When You Returned To Them, They Had Changed - They Suddenly Had More Space Or A Tilt Or A Door That Had Not Been There Before. New People Were Milling Around, The Floors Undulated, And The Sun Shone Newly, Strangely In The Windows, Or Through The Now Blasted-open Ceiling, Or Else It Shone Not At All, As If Having Fled The Sky.

You Chose Love Like A Belief, A Faith, A Place, A Box For One's Heart To Knock Against Like A Spook In The House.

Everything One Reads Is Nourishment Of Some Sort - Good Food Or Junk Food - And One Assumes It All Goes In And Has Its Way With Your Brain Cells.

No Matter That You Anticipate A Thing; You Get So Used To It As Part Of The Future That Its Actuality, Its Arrival, Its Force And Presence, Startles You, Takes You By Surprise, As Would A Ghost Suddenly Appearing In The Room Wearing Familiar Perfume And Boots.