I Don't Want To Live.

She Felt The Essence Of Herself Pulled Finer And Smaller Like Those Streams Of Spun Glass That Pull And Stretch Till There Remains But A Glimmering Illusion. Neither Falling Nor Breaking, The Stream Spins Finer. She Felt Herself Very Small And Ecstatic. Alabama Was In Love.

I Play The Radio And Moon About...and Dream Of Utopias Where Its Always July The 24th 1935, In The Middle Of Summer Forever.

All I Want To Be Is Very Young Always And Very Irresponsible And To Feel That My Life Is My Own-to Live And Be Happy And Die In My Own Way To Please Myself

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

The Night You Gave Me My Birthday Party... You Were A Young Lieutenant And I Was A Fragrant Phantom, Wasn't I? And It Was A Radiant Night, A Night Of Soft Conspiracy And The Trees Agreed That It Was All Going To Be For The Best.