I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
I dream too much, work too little.
What have I eaten? Lies and smiles.
Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.