The Short Story Is The Literature Of

I Dream That My Face Appears On A Postage Stamp.

We Praise Him, We Bless Him, We Adore Him, We Glorify Him, And We Wonder Who Is That Baritone Across The Aisle And That Pretty Woman On Our Right Who Smells Of Apple Blossoms. Our Bowels Stir And Our Cod Itches And We Amend Our Prayers For The Spiritual Life With The Hope That It Will Not Be Too Spiritual.

For Lovers, Touch Is Metamorphosis. All The Parts Of Their Bodies Seem To Change, And They Seem To Become Something Different And Better.

I Don't Like To See All My Energies, All Of My Youth, Wasted In Fur Coats And Radios And Slipcovers.

The Short Story Is The Literature Of The Nomad.