I rely heavily on rhythm when I write. You should tap your foot when you read it, all the way through.
I suddenly remember something I've been told about fear. That amid a hail of machine gun fire you notice the existence of your skin.
I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.
The best way to fill time is to waste it.
A book consists of two layers: on top, the readable layer. . . and underneath, a layer that was inaccessible. You only sense its existence in a moment of distraction from the literal reading, the way you see childhood through a child. It would take forever to tell what you see, and it would be pointless.
I've known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you're more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.
Very early in my life it was too late.
I hope that I'll be hot for a long time so I can make a lot of money, I can retire early, and just travel. Hopefully that will happen.
If you want to create a masterpiece, you must always avoid beautiful lies.
Passing beauties are only the fugitive reflections of the eternal. All beauty alters and all life melts away; in short, everything passes with marvelous rapidity; beautiful Helen of Troy has become a toothless skull, then a handful of dust, then nothing.
Who but an English professor would threaten to kill a duck a day and hold up a goose as an example?