... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The jacket shifted. Geryon peered out.
... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.
Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
The brain is unreliable. It relies on lies.
Everything hurt. It meant she was alive.
And there is good money to be made when things are bad.
Willmore: There is no sinner like a young saint.
The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.
Christ! What are patterns for?
It is no wonder lesbians love women.
I'm not much but I'm all I have.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting...
The risk of all friendship is, alas, a little grief.
There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.
What are men? Children who doubt.
We are bodies, sometimes with dreams and always with desires.
Everyone wants the tallest tree to fall
Time cures you first, and then it kills you.
everything/ that ever was still is, somewhere
All art is quite useless.
