I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.

And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.