The fact about contemporaries is that they're doing the same thing on another railway line: one resents their distracting one, flashing past, the wrong way- something like that: from timidity, partly, one keeps one's eyes on one's own road.

Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

And are you in love? And are you happy? And do you sometimes write a poem? And have you had your hair cut? And have you met anybody of such beauty your eyes dance, as the waves danced,

I like your energy. I love your legs. I long to see you.

I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you near. Excuse the bad writing and excuse the emotional overflow. What I mean to say, perhaps, is that, in a way, I am never empty of you; not for a moment, an instant, a single second.

If you notice a dancing light on the water, that’s me. The light kisses your eyes,

My mind is filled with dreams of romantic meetings.

I have never more wanted to see you than I do now — just to sit and look at you,

The flowers have come, and are adorable, dusky, tortured, passionate like you.