The hardest part is believing in yourself at the notebook stage. It is like believing in dreams in the morning.
A wet dream in the mind of New York.
in freeing myself from the romantic dream of finding another man to come along and rescue me, I learned that no one can rescue me except myself.
Venice, that capital city of dream and intrigue, that double city (one above and seemingly solid, one below, wavering and reflected in the waters), which never disappoints.
Poems, like dreams, are a sort of royal road to the unconscious. They tell you what your secret self cannot express.
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