I Sleep With My Feet On Moss

Had I Not Created My Whole World, I Would Certainly Have Died In Other People’s.

Sometimes I Think Of Paris Not As A City But As A Home.

I Gathered Poets Around Me And We All Wrote Beautiful Erotica. As We Were Condemned To Focus Only On Sensuality, We Had Violent Explosions Of Poetry. Writing Erotica Became A Road To Sainthood Rather Than To Debauchery.

She Makes Use Of The Soft Of The Bread For A Napkin. She Falls Asleep At Times With Shoes On, On Unmade Beds. When A Little Money Comes In, June Buys Delicacies, Strawberries In The Winter, Caviar And Bath Salts.

Anything I Can Not Transform Into Something Marvelous, I Let Go.