They Would Grow Old. They Would Forget

I Want To Be Silverly Beautiful.

One Thing, I Try To Be Honest. And What Is Revealed Is Often Rather Hideously Unflattering.

I Wonder Why I Don't Go To Bed And Go To Sleep. But Then It Would Be Tomorrow, So I Decide That No Matter How Tired, No Matter How Incoherent I Am, I Can Skip On Hour More Of Sleep And Live.

I Find That In A Novel I Can Get More Of Life, Perhaps Not Such Intense Life, But Certainly More Of Life Than In Poetry.

I Have Taken A Pill To Kill The Thin Papery Feeling.