I Love You, What Star Do You

My Heart Has Become As Hard As A City Street, The Horses Trample Upon It, It Sings Like Iron, All Day Long And All Night Long They Beat, They Ring Like The Hooves Of Time.

Should I Not Hear, As I Lie Down In Dust, The Horns Of Glory Blowing Above My Burial?

The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!

It Is Precisely The Sort Of Thing I Am Always Trying To Do In My Writing -- To Present My Unhappy Reader With A Wide-ranged Chaos -- Of Actions And Reactions, Thoughts, Memories And Feelings -- In The Vain Hope That At The End He Will See That The Whole Thing Represents Only One Moment, One Feeling, One Person. A Raging, Trumpeting Jungle Of Associations, And Then I Announce At The End Of It, With A Gesture Of Despair, "this Is I!

I Think It's Very Useful To Be Insulated From Your Surrounds, Because It Gives You Your Inviolate Privacy, Without Pressures, So That You Can Just Be Yourself.