I can't remember the beautiful words that meter my tempo, so each day I must poetize life, for only in musical expression do I live.
I'm never bored in nature but in human company, without conversation in some depth, I'm lost.
I am without destination. My path is the warm face that gives me direction. My days are spent rambling on any road for That, for I am a pickpocket. In the herd of humanity, in the splash of people at the ball park, in the funneled troop of patriot workers en route to their jobs, in the turnstiles of the rapid transit ~ there amid the somnolence of beach ones, I siphon the unattended spirit. In vacant glances, I pillage from the nectar of every man.
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