Writing Is The Clumsy Attempt To Find

I Loved You When I Saw You Today And I Loved You Always But I Never Saw You Before.

It Was Like Certain Dinners I Remember From The War. There Was Much Wine, An Ignored Tension, And A Feeling Of Things Coming That You Could Not Prevent Happening. Under The Wine I Lost The Disgusted Feeling And Was Happy. It Seemed They Were All Such Nice People.

I Say That Is Wine," Brett Held Up Her Glass. "we Ought To Toast Something. 'here's To Royalty.'" "this Wine Is Too Good For Toast-drinking, My Dear. You Don't Want To Mix Emotions Up With A Wine Like That. You Lose The Taste." Brett's Glass Was Empty.

There Is Never Any Ending To Paris And The Memory Of Each Person Who Has Lived In It Differs From That Of Any Other. We Always Returned To It No Matter Who We Were Or How It Was Changed Or With What Difficulties, Or Ease, It Could Be Reached. Paris Was Always Worth It And You Received Return For Whatever You Brought To It. But This Is How Paris Was In The Early Days When We Were Very Poor And Very Happy.

You're Beautiful, Like A May Fly.