I'd rather be thin than famous but I'm fat paste that in your broadway show

And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhat far across, gloomy, crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and emptyheaded - at least that's what I thought then.

Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better.

The human bones are but vain lines dawdling, the whole universe a blank mold of stars.

The dream is already ended and we're already awake in the golden eternity.

The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words.

But night would come and with it the mountain moon and the lake would be moon - laned and I'd go out and sit in the grass and meditate facing west, wishing there were a Personal God in all this impersonal matter.