Nothing Could Have Survived Our Life.

Life Has Puffed And Blown Itself Into A Summer Day, And Clouds And Spring Billow Over The Heavens As If Calendars Were A Listing Of Mathematical Errors.

I Play The Radio And Moon About...and Dream Of Utopias Where Its Always July The 24th 1935, In The Middle Of Summer Forever.

Isn't It Funny How Danger Makes People Passionate?

Women Sometimes Seem To Share A Quiet, Unalterable Dogma Of Persecution That Endows Even The Most Sophisticated Of Them With The Inarticulate Poignancy Of The Peasant.

Don't You Think I Was Made For You? I Feel Like You Had Me Ordered - And I Was Delivered To You - To Be Worn. I Want You To Wear Me, Like A Watch-charm Or A Buttonhole Bouquet.