...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

And I, love, am a pathological liar.

I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence...luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.