Self-love Is An Idolatry. Self-hatred Is A

Sentences In Which I Have Tried For A Certain Light Tone -- Many Of Those Have To Do With Events, Upheavals, Destructions That Caused Me To Weep Like A Child.

Biographers, The Quick In Pursuit Of The Dead, Research, Organize, Fill In, Contradict, And Make In This Way A Sort Of Completed Picture Puzzle With All The Scramble Turned Into A Blue Eye And The Parts Of The Right Leg Fitted Together.

It Is June. This Is What I Have Decided To Do With My Life Just Now. I Will Do This Work And Lead This Life, The One I Am Leading Today. Each Morning The Blue Clock And The Crocheted Bedspread, The Table With The Phone, The Books And Magazines, The Times At The Door.

Memory - The Very Skin Of Life.

Mothers Born On Relief Have Their Babies On Relief. Nothingness, Truly, Seems To Be The Condition Of These New York People. They Are Nomads Going From One Rooming House To Another, Looking For A Toilet That Functions.