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

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.

Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.

I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

["The Sun Also Rises" is about] bullfighting, bullslinging and bullsh[*]t.

I wish we could spend July by the sea, browning ourselves and feeling water-weighted hair flow behind us from a dive. I wish our gravest concerns were the summer gnats. I wish we were hungry for hot dogs and dopes, and it would be nice to smell the starch of summer linens and the faint odor of talc in blistering summer bath houses ... We could lie in long citoneuse beams of the five o'clock sun on the plage at Juan-les-Pins and hear the sound of the drum and piano being scooped out to sea by the waves.