So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago.
There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!
I didn't choose poetry: poetry chose me.
Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action