I'm Sick Of My Own Romanticism!

I Sleep With My Feet On Moss Carpets, My Branches In The Cotton Of The Clouds.

Convalescence. Such An Utter Weakness That You Lie Like An Animal Hibernating, Playing Possum. You Float. You Are Adrift. Every Current Is Stronger Than You.

You Fall In Love With People's Minds.

Jazz Is The Music Of The Body.

I Had Been Struck By The Analogy Between Neurosis And Romanticism. Romanticism Was Truly A Parallel To Neurosis. It Demanded Of Reality An Illusory World, Love, An Absolute Which It Could Never Obtain, And Thus Destroyed Itself By The Dream.