O Seasons, O Castles, What

I Saw That All Beings Are Fated To Happiness: Action Is Not Life, But A Way Of Wasting Some Force, An Enervation. Morality Is The Weakness Of The Brain.

There Shall Be Poets! When Woman's Unmeasured Bondage Shall Be Broken, When She Shall Live For And Through Herself, Man--hitherto Detestable--having Let Her Go, She, Too, Will Be Poet! Woman Will Find The Unknown! Will Her Ideational Worlds Be Different From Ours? She Will Come Upon Strange, Unfathomable, Repellent, Delightful Things; We Shall Take Them, We Shall Comprehend Them.

He Would Say, "how Funny It Will All Seem, All You've Gone Through, When I'm Not Here Anymore, When You No Longer Feel My Arms Around Your Shoulders, Nor My Heart Beneath You, Nor This Mouth On Your Eyes, Because I Will Have To Go Away Some Day, Far Away..." And In That Instant I Could Feel Myself With Him Gone, Dizzy With Fear, Sinking Down Into The Most Horrible Blackness: Into Death.

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.

One Evening I Sat Beauty On My Knees – And I Found Her Bitter – And I Reviled Her.