The truest form of any form of revolutionary left, whatever you want to call it, was Jack Kerouac, E. E. Cummings, and Allan Ginsberg's period. Excuse me but that was where it was at. The hippies, I'm afraid, don't know what's happening.
I am kept in bondage by the moles of my beloved.
Clothes make a statement. Costumes tell a story.
Forgiveness is like faith. You have to keep reviving it.
Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are.
Faith moves mountains, but you have to keep pushing while you are praying.
Imagination has rules, but we can only guess what they are.
Therapy? I don't need that. The roles that I choose are my therapy.
Music and film are parallel experiences: they are linear, they are narrative.
The overhead lights reflect in the glass countertop and mingle in the gray and black of the gloves, resulting in a mother-of-pearl swirl that sometimes sends Mirabelle into a shallow hypnotic dream.
In another time, in another place, I wonder who they might have been.