The disappearance of the presence of beauty is the most despairing of events on this time-wheel of ours that rolls onward towards death.

The birthing wolf,
Her heart fed with tenderness,
Gave forth from ripe brown nipples,
Food to feed the universe.

I regained my soul through literature after those times I'd lost it to wild-eyed gypsy girls on the European streets.

Looking back on my life, I sigh. The caprice of youth goes with the wind, I’ve no regrets.

It was a time I slept in many rooms, called myself by many names. I wandered through the quarters of the city like alluvium wanders the river banks. I knew every kind of joy, ascents of every hue. Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.

Never did the world make a queen of a girl who hides in houses and dreams without traveling.