A Squalid Phantasmagoria Of Breath

He Lifted His Arms To The Crystaline, Radiant Sky. "i Know Myself," He Cried, "but That Is All.

So We'll Just Let Things Take Their Course, And Never Be Sorry.

The Sun Had Gone Down Behind The Tall Apartments Of The Movie Stars In The West Fifties, And The Unclear Voices Of Children, Already Gathered Like Crikets On The Grass, Rose Through The Hot Twilight.

Reporting The Extreme Things As If They Were The Average Things Will Start You On The Art Of Fiction.

Take Off That Darn Fur Coat!...or Maybe You'd Like To Have Us Open All The Windows.