The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.