you know that i could be in love with almost everyone.  i think that people are the greatest fun.

less words to explain away the pain.  less images to coax certainty out of the vague. 

in a world without a conscience there would be fewer words, fewer images.

it will come and go as it pleases.  where would the world be without guilt?

i don't think repression is the answer.  either let it go, or let it go through you.

i am guilty.  i recognize it.  but i'll keep it in a locked up car on a dead end street. 

i am vain and rebellious.  arthur, you are guilty but exquisite.

and strangle it.  if it will let me, of course.

but i feel i can grasp it!  maybe while it's bouncing down the hallway.

the doctors tell me to just let it go.  let it drop to the floor.  let it roll away.

and the passion is there.  sometimes it takes the wrong road.

i am capable of feelings of guilt.  you are right.  i never saw this coming.

i give in to my desires.  would you like to be a saint, arthur?  can you still possess a guilty conscience?

if you are saying that i am not a saint, arthur, i agree wholeheartedly.

it can also be treacherous.  rotten to the core.

curiosity is the first and simplest emotion.

dune buggy on the beach.  1966.  fire island.  you certainly pick your spots.

i know.  sardines.  orange.  i was there that night when he was killed on the beach.

that is why i am not a romantic.  

in o'hara's poem, why i am not a painter, substitute painter with romantic.

you are such a romantic, arthur.

the lying, the cheating, the meanness.  it is better here.  with you. 

i've lost my taste for artifice.  i blow their lights out occasionally.

people thrive on artifice.  smoke and mirrors, i say.

leonor fini said it to me once in venice.  i didn't think it was original.

a bit precious.  but whom am i to speak?

is a corkscrew, at ease, a corkscrew?

i don't know.  i can't find it in any of the books here.  it sounds vaguely surrealist.

arthur, where did that come from?

if glasses were glasses, and not airships, would hands really be birds?

every day i watch the boys playing some kind of hand game out the window.

we were falling and we found each other just in time.  there are so many wandering alone.  

it is only an object slightly turned.  we must learn to play with our toys.

at times, i feel so tired and exhausted with metaphors.

the space represents the answers and the questions.  at least that is our game.

kundera said, the greater the ambiguity, the greater the pleasure.

is it not ambiguous enough for you arthur?

no.  there has to be movement.  expansion.  contraction.   arp decided the metaphor can't do without it.

the two catherines or the two elizabeths?

would you say that these spaces are similar to the space between