Character: Dorothy Seymour

You see, I believe that we usually know too much about others, it's exhausting. Know with whom they live, than to live with whom you sleep, think about me... And in my opinion, the less you know the better, do you think?

I was tormented by the thought: what kind of barrier so often stands between people and their innermost desires, their incredible pursuit of happiness? Maybe the obstacle grows the idea of happiness, the ideal that they themselves create, are incompatible with real life? Or blame time? Or lack of time? Or nurtured from childhood crack?

Young men, on whose lips the milk is not dried out, nothing to do in the arms of Mature ladies, which reeks of Scotch.

Maybe it is because I so hate what is usually called the staff of life, I love life in all its manifestations.

Someone who loves life, will never be enough words to describe it. The beauty of the day, the charm of the night. Dizzy with wine and sensual pleasures. Violin tenderness, passion work, health. Unimaginable happiness to Wake up in the morning with a full day ahead, a great day full of joys and worries. And you can revel in it while sleeping, like death, will not bind you immobile until the next morning. I never find words to thank heaven, or God, or my mother for what I appeared in this world where everything is for me: the freshness of the sheets and their bruising, intimacy with a lover, and loneliness, gray-blue ocean, smooth, straight ribbon of road to the Studio, music all radio stations and pleading look Lewis.