And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.