Love Cannot Be Measured By

If You Never Left Anything Or Anyone There Would Be No Room For The New. Naturally, To Move On Is An Infidelity -- To Others, To The Past, To Old Notions Of Oneself. Perhaps Every Day Should Contain At Least One Essential Infidelity Or Necessary Betrayal. It Would Be An Optimistic, Hopeful Act, Guaranteeing Belief In The Future -- A Declaration That Things Can Be Not Only Different But Better.

Falling In Love Was Simple; One Had Only To Yield. Digesting Another Person, However, And Sustaining Love, Was Bloody Work, And Not A Soft Job.

Why Do People Who Are Good At Families Have To Be Smug And Assume It Is The Only Way To Live. … Why Can’t They Be Blamed For Being Bad At Promiscuity?

And Silence, Like Darkness, Can Be Kind; It, Too, Is A Language.

For Mum, Life Was Fundamentally Hell. You Went Blind, You Got Raped, People Forgot Your Birthday, Nixon Got Elected, Your Husband Fled With A Blonde From Beckenham, And Then You Got Old, You Couldn't Walk And You Died.