Two Armies At Death-grips —

The Woman From The Depths Of Her Rags, A Waif, A Martyr — Smiled. She Must Have A Divine Heart To Be So Tired And Yet Smile.

It Is Not A Woman I Want - It Is All Women.

I See Too Deep And Too Much.

All Lovers In The World Are Alike: They Fall In Love By Chance; They See Each Other, And Are Attached To Each Other By The Features Of Their Faces; They Illuminate Each Other By The Fierce Preference Which Is Akin To Madness; They Assert The Reality Of Illusions; And For A Moment They Change Falsehood Into Truth.

I Am More Sensitive Than Other People. Things That Other People Would Not Notice Awaken A Distinct Echo In Me, And In Such Moments Of Lucidity, When I Look At Myself, I See That I Am Alone, All Alone, All Alone.