(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.
But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.
And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.