Love Is The Only Thing

To The Untraveled, Territory Other Than Their Own Familiar Heath Is Invariably Fascinating. Next To Love It Is The One Thing That Solaces And Delights.

You Walk Into A Room, See A Woman, And Something Happens. It's Chemical. What Are You Going To Do About It?

Life Is A God-damned, Stinking, Treacherous Game And Nine Hundred And Ninety-nine Men Out Of A Thousand Are Bastards.

Innate Sensuousness Rarely Has Any Desire For Accuracy, No Desire For Precise Information. It Basks In Sunshine, Bathes In Color, Dwells In A Sense Of The Impressive And The Gorgeous, And Rests There. Accuracy Is Not Necessary Except In The Case Of Aggressive, Acquisitive Natures, When It Manifests Itself In A Desire To Seize. True Controlling Sensuousness Cannot Be Manifested In The Most Active Dispositions, Nor Again In The Most Accurate.

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.