The Affectionate Farce I Make Of Him

Your Numbness Is Something Perhaps You Cannot Help. It Is What The World Has Done To You. But Your Coldness. That Is What You Do To The World.

A Novel Is A Daily Labor Over A Period Of Years. A Novel Is A Job. But A Story Can Be Like A Mad, Lovely Visitor, With Whom You Spend A Rather Exciting Weekend.

I Always Do The Wrong. I Do The Wrong Thing So Much That The Times I Actually Do The Right Thing Stand Out So Brightly In My Memory That I Forget I Always Do The Wrong Thing.

Love Drains You, Takes With It Much Of Your Blood Sugar And Water Weight. You Are Like A House Slowly Losing Its Electricity, The Fans Slowing, The Lights Dimming And Flickering; The Clocks Stop And Go And Stop.

All The Way Out I Listen To The Car Am Radio, Bad Lyrics Of Trailer Park Love, Gin And Tonic Love, Strobe Light Love, Lost And Found Love, Lost And Found And Lost Love, Lost And Lost And Lost Love—some People Were Having No Luck At All. The Dj Sounds Quick And Smooth And After-shaved, The Rest Of The World A Mess By Comparison.