Most Of The Time In Our World,

How Does This Happen? To Fall In Love And Be Disassembled.

We Are Expanded By Tears, We Are Told, Not Reduced By Them.

If She Were A Writer She Would Collect Her Pencils And Notebooks And Favourite Cat And Write In Bed. Strangers And Lovers Would Never Get Past The Locked Door.

Love Is So Small It Can Tear Itself Through The Eye Of A Needle

You Must Talk To Me, Caravaggio. Or Am I Just A Book? Something To Be Read, Some Creature To Be Tempted Out Of A Loch And Shot Full Of Morphine, Full Of Corridors, Lies, Loose Vegetation, Pockets Of Stones.