I don't think I want to win anything I think I want to die unadorned.

I am not a painter. I am a poet. / Why? I think I would rather be / a painter, but I am not.

I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Negres of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness

It may be the coldest day of The year, what does he think of That? I mean, what do I? And if I do, Perhaps I am myself again.