Our Problem Right Now Is

I Suppose It's Everyone's Fate To Be Reduced To Quaintness By Those Younger Than Themselves.

The Cat Jumps Up On The Bed And Tries To Get Onto My Head. It's His Way Of Telling Whether Or Not I'm Dead. If I'm Not, He Wants To Be Scratched; If I Am - He'll Think Of Something

We Thought We Had Such Problems. How Were We To Know We Were Happy?

I Feel Like The Word Shatter.

The Alcohol Smell Is On My Fingers, Cold And Remote, Piercing Like A Steel Pin Going In. It Smells Like White Enamel Basins. When I Look Up At The Stars In The Nighttime, Cold And White And Sharp, I Think They Must Smell Like That.