I Privately Say To You, Old Friend...

I Just Never Felt So Fantastically Rocky In My Entire Life.

He Seemed Unaware Of The Messiness Of The Arrangement.

I Felt So Lonesome, All Of A Sudden. I Almost Wished I Was Dead.

The Worst Thing That Being An Artist Could Do To You Would Be That It Would Make You Slightly Unhappy Constantly.

The Rest, With Very Little Exaggeration, Was Books. Meant-to-be-picked-up Books. Permanently-left-behind Books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with Books. But Books, Books. Tall Cases Lined Three Walls Of The Room, Filled To And Beyond Capacity. The Overflow Had Been Piled In Stacks On The Floor. There Was Little Space Left For Walking, And None Whatever For Pacing.