I Measured Love By The

I Wrote At The Start That This Was A Record Of Hate, And Walking There Beside Henry Towards The Evening Glass Of Beer, I Found The One Prayer That Seemed To Serve The Winter Mood: O God, You've Done Enough, You've Robbed Me Of Enough, I'm Too Tired And Old To Learn To Love, Leave Me Alone Forever.

I Can't Talk You In Terms Of Time --your Time And My Time Are Different

However Great A Man's Fear Of Life, Suicide Remains The Courageous Act, The Clear-headed Act Of A Mathematician. The Suicide Has Judged By The Laws Of Chance - So Many Odds Against One That To Live Will Be More Miserable Than To Die. His Sense Of Mathematics Is Greater Than His Sense Of Survival. But Think How A Sense Of Survival Must Clamor To Be Heard At The Last Moment, What Excuses It Must Present Of A Totally Unscientific Nature.

I Could Have Waited Years, Now That I Knew The End Of The Story. I Was Cold And Wet And Very Happy. I Could Even Look With Charity Towards The Altar And The Figure Dangling There. She Loves Us Both, I Thought, But If There Is To Be A Conflict Between An Image And A Man, I Know Who Will Win. I Could Put My Hand On Her Thigh Or My Mouth On Her Breast; He Was Imprisoned Behind The Altar And Couldn't Move To Plead His Cause.

Self-expression Is A Hard And Selfish Thing. It Eats Everything, Even The Self. At The End You Find You Haven't Even Got A Self To Express.