The spectator is a dying animal.
Most people love you for who you pretend to be.
There's nothing wrong with being a large mammal.
We're reaching for death on the end of a candle We're trying for something that's already found us
Sex is full of lies. The body tries to tell the truth. But, it's usually too battered with rules to be heard, and bound with pretenses so it can hardly move. We cripple ourselves with lies.
There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.