the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, the
sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, gardens and the last
door closed at 4. A.M. and the last fantastic book flung out of the
poem of life a nightmare, with mother finally ******, and the last
telephone nothing but threads of the Bronx where you accuse your doctors
of insanity and fascist national Golgotha I'm with you in Rockland