Outside on sixth avenue in the rain paper bags flying over the sidewalk—death’s house pets maybe—and the stretched, symphonic strains of capitalism are all about, wheels persistent, air brakes, taxicabs and buses, a mad man howling as if he was King Lear, and why not think of Manhattan as a moor or heath? Why not shed tears of distress? Of course I decide not to. I will present myself to strangers as—as what? Benign? Ironic? Kindly about the eyes? Ginko leaves brush my face like butterflies from the underworld.