I gave up before birth.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.

There is man in his entirety, blaming his shoe when his foot is guilty.

Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.