All women are misfits. We do not fit into this world without amputations.
We can only know what we can truly imagine. Finally what we see comes from ourselves.
The mind wraps itself around a poem. It is almost sensual, particularly if you work on a computer. You can turn the poem round and about and upside down, dancing with it a kind of bolero of two snakes twisting and coiling, until the poem has found its right and proper shape.
Sleeping together is a euphemism for people, but tantamount to marriage with cats.
Pain is a forcing sieve that turns me to gruel.
Like species, couples die out or evolve.