if you ever see me grinning from my blue Volks running a yellow light driving straight into the sun without dark shades I will only be locked into the afternoon of a crazy life thinking of trapeze artists of midgets with big cigars of a Russian winter in the early forties of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil or an old waitress bringing me an extra cup of coffee and seeming to laugh at me as she does so. the best of you I like more than you think. the others don’t count except that they have fingers and heads and some of them eyes and most of them legs and all of them good and bad dreams and a
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