That She Had So Completely Recovered Her

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

I Often Think Of The Image Only I Can See Now, And Of Which I’ve Never Spoken. It’s Always There, In The Same Silence, Amazing. It’s The Only Image Of Myself I Like, The Only One In Which I Recognize Myself, In Which I Delight

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

In Homosexual Love The Passion Is Homosexuality Itself. What A Homosexual Loves, As If It Were His Lover, His Country, His Art, His Land, Is Homosexuality.

We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.