You Can Pretend For A Long Time,

It Was The Darkness That Got You. It Was Heavy Darkness, Greasy And Compelling. It Made Walls Round You, And Shut You In So That You Felt Like You Could Not Breathe.

When I Think About It, If I Had To Choose, I'd Rather Be Happy Than Write.

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

Even The One Moment That You Thought Was Your Eternity Fades Out And Is Forgotten And Dies.

My Life, Which Seems So Simple And Monotonous, Is Really A Complicated Affair Of Cafés Where They Like Me And Cafés Where They Don't, Streets That Are Friendly, Streets That Aren't, Rooms Where I Might Be Happy, Rooms Where I Shall Never Be, Looking-glasses I Look Nice In, Looking-glasses I Don't, Dresses That Will Be Lucky, Dresses That Won't, And So On.