I write emotional algebra.

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

In the world of the dreamer there was solitude: all the exaltations and joys came in the moment of preparation for living. They took place in solitude. But with action came anxiety, and the sense of insuperable effort made to match the dream, and with it came weariness, discouragement, and the flight into solitude again. And then in solitude, in the opium den of remembrance, the possibility of pleasure again.

I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.

although I love a rich life, I hate an overcrowded life. I believe in rumination and lose half the beauty of all things when I am deprived of the time to ruminate.

We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.

I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.