The Beloved's Innocence Brutalizes The Lover. As

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

Simply Do Something Else And Return To It Later To Find The Problem Wasn't A Problem At All. Ruptures Almost Always Lead To A Stronger Project.

Those Nights Lying Alone Are Not Discontinuous With This Cold Hectic Dawn. It Is Who I Am.

M: Is He Smart I: She Yes Very Smart Sees Right Through Me M: In My Day We Valued Blindness Rather More

Consider Incompleteness As A Verb.