I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did.

A man was the cause of it all. An unarmed man with a weapon.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

I wish I weren’t reeling at all.

There is a geography which holds its hands just so far from the breast and pushes you away, crying so.

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.

There were occasionally rifts in the cloud where the face of a woman appeared, frowning.