The Press Blew, The Public Stared, Hands

From Birth To Death We Are Alone.

It's Not Till Sex Has Died Out Between A Man And A Woman That They Can Really Love. And Now I Mean Affection. Now I Mean To Be Fond Of (as One Is Fond Of Oneself) -to Hope, To Be Disappointed, To Live Inside The Other Heart. When I Look Back On The Pain Of Sex, The Love Like A Wild Fox So Ready To Bite, The Antagonism That Sits Like A Twin Beside Love, And Contrast It With Affection, So Deeply Unrepeatable, Of Two People Who Have Lived A Life Together (and Of Whom One Must Die) It's The Affection I Find Richer. It's That I Would Have Again. Not All Those Doubtful Rainbow Colors.

The Pleasure Of One's Effect On Other People Still Exists In Age - What's Called Making A Hit. But The Hit Is Much Rarer And Made Of Different Stuff.

An Only Child Is Never Twelve.

I Shall Continue To Explore-the Astonishment Of Living.