life perpetuated in parti-colored loves and beautiful lies all in different languages.

There were occasionally rifts in the cloud where the face of a woman appeared, frowning.

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to.

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did.

I wish I weren’t reeling at all.

I'm becoming the street. Who are you in love with? me? Straight against the light I cross.