The mind is smaller than the eye.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
New York is a field of tireless and antagonistic interests undoubtedly fascinating but horribly unreal. Everybody is looking at everybody else a foolish crowd walking on mirrors.
The point of vision and desire are the same.
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.