Nothing Remains But Desire, And

We Love Those Who Know The Worst Of Us And Don't Turn Their Face Away.

I Sometimes Think Novelists Write About Sex In Order To Avoid Boring Themselves To Death.

To Become Aware Of The Possibility Of The Search Is To Be Onto Something.

Have You Noticed That Only In Time Of Illness Or Disaster Or Death Are People Real? I Remember At The Time Of The Wreck-- People Were So Kind And Helpful And Solid. Everyone Pretended That Our Lives Until That Moment Had Been Every Bit As Real As The Moment Itself And That The Future Must Be Real Too, When The Truth Was That Our Reality Had Been Purchased Only By Lyell's Death. In Another Hour Or So We Had All Faded Out Again And Gone Our Dim Ways.

Consciously Cultivate The Ordinary.