How unbearable, for women, is the tenderness which a man can give them without love. For men, how bittersweet this is.

I left the bankbecause they wouldn’t deposit my cheque of poems.So I went to the store,but they didn’t acceptmy currency of words.So I boxed all my storiesand took them to charity.But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead.I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?

In the world there is, parallel to the force of death and constraint, an enormous force of persuasion that is called culture.