Death is the only real elegance.

Death is the only real elegance.

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.

And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.