Monday, February 29, 2016
On the way home, in the evening, on the train home with all the young women in fur coats soon, one hopes, stained with lipstick. On my way to meet Michele for a meal. Wondering will I set these words to music, and, if I do, then, when I sing them, how cloying might they sound? We talked about crooked teeth over a bowl of hush puppies.