Existence Will Not Stop Until It Gets

We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life.

I Don't Read Reviews And I Don't Know What To Do With Opinions, So I Just Lose Them. They Take Up Space, They Become A Process Of Manufacturing A Persona, Which I Want To Avoid.

A Page With A Poem On It Is Less Attractive Than A Page With A Poem On It And Some Tea Stains.

Simply Do Something Else And Return To It Later To Find The Problem Wasn't A Problem At All. Ruptures Almost Always Lead To A Stronger Project.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.