You Have To Be Very Fond Of

In Homosexual Love The Passion Is Homosexuality Itself. What A Homosexual Loves, As If It Were His Lover, His Country, His Art, His Land, Is Homosexuality.

Life Is Only Lived Full-time By Women With Children.

The Solitude Of Writing Is A Solitude Without Which Writing Could Not Be Produced, Or Would Crumble, Drained Bloodless By The Search For Something Else To Write.

I Meet You. I Remember You. Who Are You? You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. How Could I Know This City Was Tailor-made For Love? How Could I Know You Fit My Body Like A Glove? I Like You. How Unlikely. I Like You. How Slow All Of A Sudden. How Sweet. You Cannot Know. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. You’re Destroying Me. You’re Good For Me. I Have Time. Please, Devour Me. Deform Me To The Point Of Ugliness. Why Not You? Why Not You In This City And In This Night, So Like Other Cities And Other Nights You Can Hardly Tell The Difference? I Beg Of You.

I Seldom Read On Beaches Or In Gardens. You Can't Read By Two Lights At Once, The Light Of Day And The Light Of The Book. You Should Read By Electric Light, The Room In Shadow, And Only The Page Lit Up.