Self-love Is An Idolatry. Self-hatred Is A

It Is June. This Is What I Have Decided To Do With My Life Just Now. I Will Do This Work And Lead This Life, The One I Am Leading Today. Each Morning The Blue Clock And The Crocheted Bedspread, The Table With The Phone, The Books And Magazines, The Times At The Door.

How Certain Human Beings Are Able To Create Works Of Art Is A Mystery, And Why They Should Wish To Do So, At A Great Cost To Themselves Usually, Is Another Mystery. Works Are Not Created By One's Life; Every Life Is Rich In Material.

Sentences In Which I Have Tried For A Certain Light Tone -- Many Of Those Have To Do With Events, Upheavals, Destructions That Caused Me To Weep Like A Child.

Gossip, Or, As We Gossips Like To Say, Character Analysis.

Sex Can No Longer Be The Germ, The Seed Of Fiction. Sex Is An Episode, Most Properly Conveyed In An Episodic Manner, Quickly, Often Ironically. It Is A Bursting Forth Of Only One Of The Cells In The Body Of The Omnipotent I, The One Who Hopes By Concentration Of Tone And Voice To Utter The Sound Of Reality.