Even Damnation Is Poisoned With Rainbows.

Suffering, Violent Suffering, Seems To Be Something That Corresponds With Something That We Experience.

It Was A Dance Of Masks And Every Mask Was Perfect Because Every Mask Was A Real Face And Every Face Was A Real Mask So There Was No Mask And There Was No Face For There Was But One Dance In Which There Was But One Mask But One True Face Which Was The Same And Which Was A Thing Without A Name Which Changed And Changed Into Itself Over And Over.

Suzanne Had A Room On A Waterfront Street In The Port Of Montreal. Everything Happened Just As It Was Put Down. She Was The Wife Of A Man I Knew. Her Hospitality Was Immaculate. Some Months Later I Sang It For Judy Collins Over The Telephone. The Publishing Rights Were Lost In New York City, But It Is Probably Appropriate That I Don't Own This Song. Just The Other Day I Heard Some People Singing It On A Ship In The Caspian Sea.

I've Forgotten Most Of What I've Read And, Frankly, It Never Seemed Very Important To Me Or To The World.

All The Lousy Little Poets Coming Around Trying To Sound Like Charles Manson.