Beached Under The Spumy Blooms, We Lie

How Many Different Deaths I Can Die?

Hour By Hour, Day By Day, Life Becomes Possible.

Nothing Is Real Except The Present, And Already, I Feel The Weight Of Centuries Smothering Me. Some Girl A Hundred Years Ago Once Lived As I Do. And She Is Dead. I Am The Present, But I Know I, Too, Will Pass. The High Moment, The Burning Flash, Come And Are Gone, Continuous Quicksand. And I Don’t Want To Die.

There Is Nothing Like Puking With Somebody To Make You Into Old Friends.

Perfection Is Terrible, It Cannot Have Children.