And I Sit Here Without Identity: Faceless.

I've Eaten A Bag Of Green Apples. Boarded The Train, There's No Getting Off

I Am What I Feel And Think And Do.

Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One To Pull Me Out Of My Plunge.

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

…* To Learn That Money Makes Life Smooth In Some Ways, And To Feel How Tight And Threadbare Life Is If You Have Too Little. * To Despise Money, Which Is A Farce, Mere Paper, And To Hate What You Have To Do For It, And Yet To Long To Have It In Order To Be Free From Slaving For It. * To Yearn Toward Art, Music, Ballet And Good Books, And Get Them Only In Tantalizing Snatches.