What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards.

Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

Love, that is all I asked, a little love, daily, twice daily, fifty years of twice daily love like a Paris horse-butcher's regular, what normal woman wants affection?

What do we do now, now that we are happy?

Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.