We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.

Suddenly, All At Once, She Knows, Knows That He Doesn't Understand Her, That He Never Will, That He Lacks The Power To Understand Such Perverseness. And That He Can Never Move Fast Enough To Catch Her.

People Come To Paris, To The Capital, To Give Their Lives A Sense Of Belonging, Of An Almost Mythical Participation In Society.

I Don't Have General Views About Anything, Except Social Injustice.

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

In A Certain State Of Mind, All Trace Of Feeling Is Banished. Whenever I Remain Silent In A Certain Way, I Don't Love You, Have You Noticed That?