My Secrets Are Petty But Humiliating.

My Ambition In Life: To Become Successful Enough To Resume My Career As A Neurasthenic.

The Harp Is An Insipid Instrument--no Good For Dancing, Feasting, Or Marching, Only For Sitting Primly In A Parlor Or On A Cloud.

Nostalgia Keeps Dissolving The Ironic Narratives In Which I Have Contained My Past.

Whatever Is Spoken Of Acquires A Certain Existence.

Early Every Morning An Old Woman Goes To The Market To Curse A Grocery Clerk, Who Curses Back.