First thought, best thought.

We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!

We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

I know I'm not God, are you? Don't be silly. God? God? Everybody's God? Don't be silly.

You can't escape the past in Paris, and yet what's so wonderful about it is that the past and present intermingle so intangibly that it doesn't seem to burden.

Others can measure their visions by what we see.