I nod, because I do understand. I'm just not sure how to go about divorcing myself from the evil I've already accepted.
On the stem of memory imaginations blossom.
We are not alone in our loneliness, others have been here and known griefs we thought our special own.
The bicycles go by in twos and threes - There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night, And there's the half-talk code of mysteries And the wink-and-elbow language of delight. Half-past eight and there is not a spot Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown That might turn out a man or woman, not A footfall tapping secrecies of stone. I have what every poet hates in spite Of all the solemn talk of contemplation. Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight Of being king and government and nation. A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.
There is something wrong with a work of art if it can be understood by a policeman.
God cannot catch us. Unless we stay in the unconscious room. Of our hearts.
It often occurs to me that we love most what makes us miserable. In my opinion the damned are damned because they enjoy being damned.
I think we are blind. Blind people who can see, but do not see.
Good writers show rather than tell. Stories are told in action. Life stories are no different.
What feeds me destroys me.
I really enjoyed Merrill Markoe's Guide To Glamorous Living, which was a weird hybrid realitysketch thing I wrote, directed, and hosted, with two male-model bimbos whom I made agree with everything I said.