Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!

I guess for me Hemingway is a lot like it is for others: he goes down well when we are young.

I can't blame her. but wonder why she's here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned?

‎"she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.

There is light somewhere.

It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.

The Artist," an ancient sage had once said, "is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.