EXHAUSTED.

I like women who haven’t lived with too many men.
I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer women
who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience.
There is a quality about women who choose men sparingly;
it appears in their walk -
in their eyes -
in their laughter -
and in their gentle hearts.
Women who have had too many men
seem to choose the next one out of revenge rather than with
feeling.
When you play the field selfishly everything works against you:
one can’t insist on love or
demand affection.
You’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give
which often is: nothing.
Some women are delicate things
some women are delicious and wondrous.
If you want to piss on the sun,
go ahead, but please leave them alone.

Yes, the world may aspire to vacuousness, lost souls mourn beauty, insignificance surrounds us. Then let us drink a cup of tea. Silence descends, one hears the wind outside, autumn leaves rustle and take flight, the cat sleeps in a warm pool of light. And, with each swallow, time is sublimed.

Truly nasty people hate everyone, to be sure, but most of all themselves. Can't you tell when a person hates himself? He becomes a living cadaver, it numbs all his negative emotions but also all the good ones so he won't feel nauseated by who he is.

Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.