In My Dreams I Sleep With Everybody.

Travel Is Seeking The Lost Paradise. It Is The Supreme Illusion Of Love.

The Inner Chambers Of The Soul Are Like The Photographer's Darkroom. Like A Laboratory. One Cannot Stay There All The Time Or It Becomes The Solitary Cell Of The Neurotic.

Sometimes We Reveal Ourselves When We Are Least Like Ourselves.

We Love Best Those Who Are, Or Act For Us, A Self We Do Not Wish To Be Or Act Out.

We Did Not Touch Each Other. We Were Both Leaning Over The Abyss.