Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.

Oh, the secret life of man and woman--dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.

Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.

I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.

And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.

And, Joey, if you ever want to know about the japonicas and the daisy fields it will be alright that you have forgotten because I will be able to tell you about how it felt to be feeling that way you cannot quite remember – that will be for the time when something happens years from now that reminds you of now.