My hatred gives me strength.

I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark.

her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her white kimono, writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle. 'Never let a man stay the night,' she told me. 'Dawn has a way of casting a pall on any night magic.' The night magic sounded lovely. Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after.

There is no God, there is only what you want.

You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.