Money buys everything except love, personality, freedom, immortality, silence, peace.
After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars
There is no song to your singing.
Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
I took to wearing a black tie known as the Ascot, with long drooping ends. I had seen pictures of painters, sculptors, poets, wearing this style of tie.
I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.