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| I make love to the elegant young, the slender-limbed and forgetful, who've seen too much already. And it hurts. It hurts to know the world is against you, that they will never understand you, you're simply too beautiful for them, they've never seen so much beauty and rather than love you it just makes them jealous. No amount of love one of us gives another can heal this basic loneliness, the sense of being too good, too intensely alive for this world. So we dull ourselves, killing ourselves quickly with the crudest of poisons. We are gentle and sad: we'd rather die alone than have to beg the sullen masses out in Iowa for the love we need. |
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