I Tried To Speak In A Cool,

And I, Stepping From This Skin Of Old Bandages, Boredoms, Old Faces Step To You From The Black Car Of Lethe, Pure As A Baby.

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.

I Think I Made You Up Inside My Head.

I Have Suffered The Atrocity Of Sunsets.

We Walk The Plank With Strangers.