A Day Without An Argument Is Like

He Is The Intermediary Between Us, His Audience, The Living, And They, The Dolls, The Undead, Who Cannot Live At All And Yet Who Mimic The Living In Every Detail Since, Though They Cannot Speak Or Weep, Still They Project Those Signals Of Signification We Instantly Recognize As Language.

Among The Monsters, I Am Well Hidden; Who Looks For A Leaf In A Forest?

The Lovely Hazard Girls', They Used To Call Them. Huh. Lovely Is As Lovely Does; If They Looked Like What They Behave Like, They'd Frighten Little Children.

Why Do You Do Up Your Hair In Those Tortured Plaits, Now, Melanie? Why? Because, She Said. You Know That's No Answer. You're Spoiling Your Pretty Looks, Pet. Come Here. She Did Not Move. He Ground Out His Cigarette On The Window-ledge And Laughed. Come Here, He Said Again, Softly. So She Went.

I Always Used To Suffer A Great Deal If I Let Myself Get Too Close To Reality Since The Definitive World Of The Everyday With Itshard Edges And Harsh Light Did Not Have Enough Resonance To Echo The Demands I Made Upon Experience. It Was As If I Never Experienced Experience As Experience. Living Never Lived Up To The Expectations I Had Of It--the Bovary Syndrome.