As In The Physical World, So In

I Don't Believe Other People Are Ever As Foolishly Excited As I Am While I'm Working. How Could They Be? Writers Would Have To Live In Trees.

The Mind I Love Must Have Wild Places.

Who Is To Decide Between 'let It Be' And 'force It'?

My Love For You Tonight Is So Deep And Tender That It Seems To Be Outside Myself As Well.

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.