There Is A Certain Unique

Compared With Me, A Tree Is Immortal.

Talking About My Fears To Others Feeds It.

The Tulips Are Too Red...they Hurt Me.

I Said: I Must Remember This, Being Small.

The Moon, Too, Abases Her Subjects, But In The Daytime She Is Ridiculous. Your Dissatisfactions, On The Other Hand, Arrive Through The Mailslot With Loving Regularity, White And Blank, Expansive As Carbon Monoxide. No Day Is Safe From News Of You, Walking About In Africa Maybe, But Thinking Of Me.