At Least Half Of Your Mind Is

What Would It Be Like To Live In A Library Of Melted Books. With Sentences Streaming Over The Floor And All The Punctuation Settled To The Bottom As A Residue. It Would Be Confusing. Unforgivable. A Great Adventure.

A Man Moves Through Time. It Means Nothing Except That, Like A Harpoon, Once Thrown He Will Arrive.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

I Never Really Got Over The Fun Of Making Letters.

Myths Are Stories About People Who Become Too Big For Their Lives Temporarily, So That They Crash Into Other Lives Or Brush Against Gods. In Crisis Their Souls Are Visible.