I Feel Sorry For The Man Who

I Was Always Crazy About New York, Dependent On It, Scared Of It - Well, It Is Dangerous - But Beyond That There Was The Pressure Of Being Young And Of Not Yet Having Done Work You Really Liked, Trademark Work, Breakthrough Work

It Bothers Me That I Won't Live To See The End Of The Century, Because, When I Was Young, In St. Louis, I Remember Saying To Marilyn, My Sister By Adoption, That That Was How Long I Wanted To Live: Seventy Years.

I Awake With A Not Entirely Sickened Knowledge That I Am Merely Young Again And In A Funny Way At Peace, An Observer Who Is Aware Of Time's Chariot, Aware That Some Metamorphosis Has Occurred.

I Am In An Adolescence In Reverse, As Mysterious As The First, Except That This Time I Feel It As A Decay Of The Odds That I Might Live For A While, That I Can Sleep It Off.

You Really Can’t Write Unless You Read. You Have To Know What The Game Is All About.