It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.

Nothing any good isn't hard.

I've been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.

He found himself remembering how on one summer morning they two had started from New York in search of happiness. They had never expected to find it, perhaps, yet in itself that quest had been happier than anything he expected forevermore. Life, it seemed, must be a setting up of props around one - otherwise it was disaster. There was no rest, no quiet. He had been futile in longing to drift and dream, no one drifted except to maelstroms, no one dreamed, without his dreams becoming fantastic nightmares of indecision and regret.

The greatest profound pain is cased by, and is the result of our own illusions, fantasies and dreams.

One thin's sure and nothing's surer The rich get richer and the poor get - children. In the meantime, In between time...

He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn't care about him.