Old Age Is An Insult. It's Like

A Diary Is The Last Place To Go If You Wish To Seek The Truth About A Person. Nobody Dares To Make The Final Confession To Themselves On Paper: Or At Least, Not About Love.

I Have Been Thinking About The Girl I Met Last Night In The Mirror: Dark On The Marble-ivory White: Glossy Black Hair: Deep Suspiring Eyes In Which One's Glances Sink Because They Are Nervous, Curious, Turned To Sexual Curiosity.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

Travel Can Be One Of The Most Rewarding Forms Of Introspection.

But I Love To Feel Events Overlapping Each Other, Crawling Over One Another Like Wet Crabs In A Basket