Woe To Him Who Doesn't Know How

I Would Love To Spend All My Time Writing To You; I'd Love To Share With You All That Goes Through My Mind, All That Weighs On My Heart, All That Gives Air To My Soul; Phantoms Of Art, Dreams That Would Be So Beautiful If They Could Come True.

Our Spirits Have Their Own Private Way Of Understanding Each Other, Of Becoming Intimate, While Our External Persons Are Still Trapped In The Commerce Of Ordinary Words, In The Slavery Of Social Rules. Souls Have Their Own Needs And Their Own Ambitions, Which The Body Ignores When It Sees That It's Impossible To Satisfy Them Or Achieve Them.

Each Of Us, Face To Face With Other Men, Is Clothed With Some Sort Of Dignity, But We Know Only Too Well All The Unspeakable Things That Go On In The Heart.

In Bed My Real Love Has Always Been The Sleep That Rescued Me By Allowing Me To Dream.

Here Is A Piece Of Earth. If You Stand Staring At It And Doing Nothing, What Does The Earth Yield? Nothing. Just Like A Woman.