We Get Something To Do And As

I Am Really Only Myself When I'm Somebody Else Whom I Have Endowed With These Wonderful Qualities From My Imagination.

Most People Hew The Battlements Of Life From Compromise, Erecting Their Impregnable Keeps From Judicious Submissions, Fabricating Their Philosophical Drawbridges From Emotional Retractions And Scalding Marauders In The Boiling Oil Of Sour Grapes.

Love Is Bitter And All There Is, And That The Rest Is For The Emotional Beggars Of The Earth.

I Wish We Could Spend July By The Sea, Browning Ourselves And Feeling Water-weighted Hair Flow Behind Us From A Dive. I Wish Our Gravest Concerns Were The Summer Gnats. I Wish We Were Hungry For Hot Dogs And Dopes, And It Would Be Nice To Smell The Starch Of Summer Linens And The Faint Odor Of Talc In Blistering Summer Bath Houses ... We Could Lie In Long Citoneuse Beams Of The Five O'clock Sun On The Plage At Juan-les-pins And Hear The Sound Of The Drum And Piano Being Scooped Out To Sea By The Waves.

It Seemed To Alabama That, Reaching Her Goal, She Would Drive The Devils That Had Driven Her - That, In Proving Herself, She Would Achieve That Peace Which She Imagined Went Only In Surety Of One’s Self - That She Would Be Able, Through The Medium Of The Dance, To Command Her Emotions, To Summon Love Or Pity Or Happiness At Will, Having Provided A Channel Through Which They Might Flow. She Drove Herself Mercilessly, And The Summer Dragged On.