Words always come first to me, then music. They often come together. I have not had the luxury of having anyone in whom to confide. I have not had a shoulder upon which to cry. As I write, as I listen to music, tears come easily to me. It will pass. It always does. The joy will return. The height of my joy can never exceed the depth of my pain. Words come more easily to those familiar with the intrigue of extremes. Life is a continual romance with pain, punctuated by moments of blissful, transcendent joy.
I have never been desperate for love. Is that mere pridefulness? Regarding love, my most basic rules are these. Refrain from loving someone who cannot bear the intensity of my obsession. Forbear the love of someone who treats me like I am ordinary. Though perhaps not regarded exceptional, note should have been well made of my reliably aberrant erraticism. I must love him or her more than he or she loves me. Flaunt the imperfection. Love the imperfection. Unconditional love lives in a world without perfection, our world. Perfection is the enemy of the good. When I am mad about someone, he or she should feel both my madness and my love.