I Thought The Most Beautiful Thing In

Love, Love, I Have Hung Our Cave With Roses.

The Moon, Also, Is Merciless: She Would Drag Me Cruelly, Being Barren. Her Radiance Scathes Me. Or Perhaps I Have Caught Her.

I Wonder Why I Don't Go To Bed And Go To Sleep. But Then It Would Be Tomorrow, So I Decide That No Matter How Tired, No Matter How Incoherent I Am, I Can Skip On Hour More Of Sleep And Live.

England Offers New Comforts. I Could Write A Novel There.

Mother Of Otherness, Eat Me.