Therefore Bivouac We On This Great, Blond

I Am Often Asked Why I Write, And I Don't Know Really--i Just Want To.

The Evening Light Was Like Honey In The Trees When You Left Me And Walked To The End Of The Street Where The Sunset Abruptly Ended. The Wedding-cake Drawbridge Lowered Itself To The Fragile Forget-me-not Flower. You Climbed Aboard. Burnt Horizons Suddenly Paved With Golden Stones, Dreams I Had, Including Suicide, Puff Out The Hot-air Balloon Now. It Is Bursting, It Is About To Burst

I Tried Each Thing, Only Some Were Immortal And Free.

Once You've Lived In France, You Don't Want To Live Anywhere Else, Including France.

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.