I Think I Want To Be In

They Were Connoisseurs Of Boredom. They Savoured The Various Bouquets Of The Subtly Differentiated Boredoms Which Rose From The Long, Wasted Hours At The Dead End Of Night.

We Must All Make Do With The Rags Of Love We Find Flapping On The Scarecrow Of Humanity.

Those Are The Voices Of My Brothers, Darling; I Love The Company Of Wolves.

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

In A World Where Women Are Commodities, A Woman Who Refuses To Sell Herself Will Have The Thing She Refuses To Sell Taken Away From Her By Force