It Takes Practice To Shave The Skin

Eros Is An Issue Of Boundaries. He Exists Because Certain Boundaries Do. In The Interval Between Reach And Grasp, Between Glance And Counterglance, Between ‘i Love You’ And ‘i Love You Too,’ The Absent Presence Of Desire Comes Alive. But The Boundaries Of Time And Glance And I Love You Are Only Aftershocks Of The Main, Inevitable Boundary That Creates Eros: The Boundary Of Flesh And Self Between You And Me. And It Is Only, Suddenly, At The Moment When I Would Dissolve That Boundary, I Realize I Never Can.

The Greek Language Seems Different Than Other Languages. I'm Not The Only Person To Think This. Usually, I Come Up With Some Kind Of Dopey Metaphor For Why It's Different. But It Seems, Somehow, More Original, More Like Being In The Morning Of Language.

Could You Visit Me In Dreams? That Would Cheer Me. Sweet To See Friends In The Night, However Short The Time.

Small, Red, And Upright He Waited, Gripping His New Bookbag Tight In One Hand And Touching A Lucky Penny Inside His Coat Pocket With The Other, While The First Snows Of Winter Floated Down On His Eyelashes And Covered The Branches Around Him And Silenced All Trace Of The World.

The Man Has A Theory. The Woman Has Hipbones. Here Comes Death.