I Long For The Bulbs To Arrive,

If I Were To Choose One Single Thing That That Would Restore Paris To The Senses, It Would Be That Strangely Sweet, Unhealthy Smell Of The Métro, So Very Unlike The Dank Cold Or The Stuffy Heat Of Subways In New York.

Once More I Realize That Solitude Is My Element, And The Reason Is That Extreme Awareness Of Other People (all Naturally Solitary People Must Feel This) Precludes Awareness Of One's Self, So After A While The Self No Longer Knows That It Exists.

We Have To Dare To Be Ourselves, However Frightening Or Strange That Self May Prove To Be.

I Suppose Real Old Age Begins When One Looks Backward Rather Than Forward

Go Rich In Poverty. Go Rich In Poetry. This Nothingness Is Plentitude.