if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.
We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.
My principal failing as a writer is the lack of spontaneity; the nuisance of parallel thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk.
Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.
I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.