Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.

And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.