The Trouble With Emergencies Is," She Said,

Without You, Dearest Dearest I Couldn't See Or Hear Or Feel Or Think - Or Live - I Love You So And I'm Never In All Our Lives Going To Let Us Be Apart Another Night.

Don't You Think I Was Made For You? I Feel Like You Had Me Ordered - And I Was Delivered To You - To Be Worn. I Want You To Wear Me, Like A Watch-charm Or A Buttonhole Bouquet.

Something In Me Vibrates To A Dusky, Dreamy Smell Of Dying Moons And Shadows.

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

The Night You Gave Me My Birthday Party... You Were A Young Lieutenant And I Was A Fragrant Phantom, Wasn't I? And It Was A Radiant Night, A Night Of Soft Conspiracy And The Trees Agreed That It Was All Going To Be For The Best.