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

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

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

She felt the essence of herself pulled finer and smaller like those streams of spun glass that pull and stretch till there remains but a glimmering illusion. Neither falling nor breaking, the stream spins finer. She felt herself very small and ecstatic. Alabama was in love.

I am really only myself when I'm somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

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.

I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.