The Lovesick, The Betrayed, And The Jealous

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.

To A Poet, Silence Is An Acceptable Response, Even A Flattering One.

Truffles Must Come To The Table In Their Own Stock And As You Break Open This Jewel Sprung From A Poverty-stricken Soil, Imagine - If You Have Never Visited It - The Desolate Kingdom Where It Rules.

Our Perfect Companions Never Have Fewer Than Four Feet.

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.