When We Came Back To Paris It

I Hate A Cramp, He Thought. It Is A Treachery Of One's Own Body.

You're An Expatriate. You've Lost Touch With The Soil. You Get Precious. Fake European Standards Have Ruined You. You Drink Yourself To Death. You Become Obsessed By Sex. You Spend All Your Time Talking, Not Working. You Are An Expatriate, See? You Hang Around Cafts.

Writing And Travel Broaden Your Ass If Not Your Mind And I Like To Write Standing Up.

Today Is Only One Day In All The Days That Will Ever Be. But What Will Happen In All The Other Days That Ever Come Can Depend On What You Do Today. It's Been That Way All This Year. It's Been That Way So Many Times. All Of War Is That Way.

The Brown Blotches Of The Benevolent Skin Cancer The Sun Brings From Its Reflection On The Tropic Sea Were On His Cheeks. The Blotches Ran Well Down The Sides Of His Face And His Hands Had The Deep-creased Scars From Handling Heavy Fish On The Cords. But None Of These Scars Were Fresh. They Were As Old As Erosions In A Fishless Desert.