She talks with a broken heart - Her voice lutes brokenly like a heart lost, musically too, like in a lost grove, it's almost too much to bear sometimes like some fantastic futuristic Jerry Southern singer in a nightclub who steps up to the mike in the spotlight in Las Vegas but doesn't even have to sing, just talk, to make men sigh and women wonder I guess.

Details are the Life of Prose.

We fumed and screamed in our mountain nook, mad drunken Americans in the mighty land. We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell, I guess - across the night.

I suddenly discovered the delight of rebellion.

There's wisdom in wine.

The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words.

Houses are full of things that gather dust