Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth. Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change?

My heart is in my/ pocket. It is poems by Pierre Reverdy.

I wish I weren’t reeling at all.

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas! / You really are beautiful! Pearls, / harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!

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's more important to confirm the least sincere. The clouds get enough attention as it is.

I embraced a cloud but when I soared it rained.

The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages. In all modesty, I confess that it may be the death of literature as we know it.