We Agreed To Love Each Other Madly.

The Taste Of Rain -- Why Kneel?

If You Dont [sic] Say What You Want, What's The Sense Of Writing?

It Is Not My Fault That Certain So-called Bohemian Elements Have Found In My Writings Something To Hang Their Peculiar Beatnik Theories On.

Holy Flowers Floating In The Air, Were All These Tired Faces In The Dawn Of Jazz America.

The Empty Blue Sky Of Space Says 'all This Comes Back To Me, Then Goes Again, And Comes Back Again, Then Goes Again, And I Don't Care, It Still Belongs To Me