I Am Just A Refugee

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

He Thought And Suffered A Good Deal But He Lacked The Resolution To Dare--the First Requisite Of A Practitioner.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

There Is No Pain Compared To That Of Loving A Woman Who Makes Her Body Accessible To One And Yet Who Is Incapable Of Delivering Her True Self -- Because She Does Not Know Where To Find It.

A Diary Is The Last Place To Go If You Wish To Seek The Truth About A Person. Nobody Dares To Make The Final Confession To Themselves On Paper: Or At Least, Not About Love.