Promiscuity is the death of love.
What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.
Death in its way comes just as much of a surprise as birth.
If the Holy Communion touched my teeth, I thought that was a mortal sin
Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.
Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.