I think we are in ratsโ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.
When the whole world is running headlong towards the precipice, one who walks in the opposite direction is looked at as being crazy.
The immature poet imitates, the mature poet plagiarizes.
My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.