When you get there, there isn't any there there.

You have to know what you want to get it.

A FEATHER. A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, it is trimmed by little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserves and loud volumes. It is surely cohesive.

War is never fatal but always lost. Always lost.

In America, everybody is, but some are more than others.

I love my love with a b because she is peculiar.

I write for myself and strangers. The strangers, dear Readers, are an afterthought.