Only In Dreams, In Poetry,

I Realized That Searching Was My Symbol, The Emblem Of Those Who Go Out At Night With Nothing In Mind, The Motives Of A Destroyer Of Compasses.

La Maga Did Not Know That My Kisses Were Like Eyes Which Began To Open Up Beyond Her, And That I Went Along Outside As If I Saw A Different Concept Of The World, The Dizzy Pilot Of A Black Prow Which Cut The Water Of Time And Negated It.

Come Sleep With Me: We Won't Make Love,love Will Make Us.

For Me The Thing That Signals A Great Story Is What We Might Call Its Autonomy, The Fact That It Detaches Itself From Its Author Like A Soap Bubble Blown From A Clay Pipe.

Once In A While It Happens That I Vomit Up A Bunny... It's Not Reason For One To Blush And Isolate Oneself And To Walk Around Keeping One's Mouth Shut.