Tell Him I Hate Him

If She Was Broken, She Would Slash Him With Her Jagged Edges, Reckless As A Drunkard With A Shattered Bottle.

Lying On The Floor, With The Carved Panels Of The Ceiling Flickering Dimly Above, I Found Myself Thinking That I Had Always Heretofore Assumed That The Tendency Of Eigh­teenth-century Ladies To Swoon Was Due To Tight Stays; Now I Rather Thought It Might Be Due To The Idiocy Of Eighteenth-century Men.

Your Face Is My Heart Sassenach, And The Love Of You Is My Soul

For So Many Years, For So Long, I Have Been So Many Things, So Many Different Men. But Here," He Said, So Softly I Could Barely Hear Him, "here In The Dark, With You… I Have No Name.

Time Is A Lot Of The Things People Say That God Is. There's Always Preexisting, And Having No End. There's The Notion Of Being All Powerful-because Nothing Can Stand Against Time, Can It? Not Mountains, Not Armies. And Time Is, Of Course, All-healing. Give Anything Enough Time, And Everything Is Taken Care Of: All Pain Encompassed, All Hardship Erased, All Loss Subsumed. Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust. Remember, Man, That Thou Art Dust; And Unto Dust Thou Shalt Return. And If Time Is Anything Akin To God, I Suppose That Memory Must Be The Devil.