Memory Is A Great Betrayer.

I Sat There For Three Hours And Did Not Feel The Time Or The Boredom Of Our Talk And Its Foolish Disconnection. As Long As I Could Hear His Voice, I Was Quite Lost, Quite Blind, Quite Outside My Own Self.

Anxiety Is Love's Greatest Killer, Because It Is Like The Stranglehold Of The Drowning.

To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate, To Go Underground.

... Only Love Begets Love.

Sexual Intercourse... A Joyous, Joyous, Joyous, Joyous Impaling Of Woman On Man's Sensual Mast.