A Man Who Lives Unrelated To Other

I Sleep With My Feet On Moss Carpets, My Branches In The Cotton Of The Clouds.

America Hates The Artist. It Will Not Admit: The Artist Is My Soul And I Want To Kill Off My Soul.

I Told Her, "we Have Both Lost Ourselves, But Sometimes We Reveal The Most When We Are Least Like Ourselves. I Am Not Trying To Think Any More. I Can't Think When I Am With You. You Are Like Me, Wishing For A Perfect Moment, But Nothing Too Long Imagined Can Be Perfect In A Worldly Way. Neither One Of Us Can Say Just The Right Thing. We Are Overwhelmed. Let Us Be Overwhelmed. It Is So Lovely, So Lovely. I Love You June.

The Period Without The Diary Remains An Ordeal. Every Evening I Want My Diary As One Wants Opium.

I Will Not Adjust Myself To The World. I Am Adjusted To Myself.