It is Washington, not Capitol Hill, that I am tired of. I have used the city up– and now this neighborhood is as good as any other. I would feel no more at home in any other part of the city than I do here– for that sense has left me; that sense of home. I long to live on a seacoast– in a fishing village– in a cottage with a blazing fire and a heavy door bolted against the winter roar– and stacks of books and my dog.

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Homosexuality has always been the cultural avant garde.

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Like a piece of paper filled with writing; no space left. Perhaps there is more to say, but there is simply no more room.