Not real can tell us about real.

At moments like this I envy those who have found a safe haven in which to bestow their hearts; or perhaps I envy them for having a heart to bestow. I often feel that I myself am without one, and possess in its stead merely a heart shaped stone.

The heart with letters on it shining like a light bulb through the trim hole painted in the chest, art history.

Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out.

A truth should exist, it should not be used like this. If I love you is that a fact or a weapon?

I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born.

Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!