What Is So Real As The Cry

The Blood Jet Is Poetry And There Is No Stopping It.

The Only Reason I Remembered This Play Was Because It Had A Mad Person In It, And Everything I Had Ever Read About Mad People Stuck In My Mind, While Everything Else Flew Out.

There I Went Again, Building Up A Glamorous Picture Of A Man Who Would Love Me Passionately The Minute He Met Me, And All Out Of A Few Prosy Nothings.

I Felt The First Man I Slept With Must Be Intelligent, So I Could Respect Him.

If There's Anything I Look Down On, It's A Man In A Blue Outfit.