there was a poop old man who came in the wrong world he existed as everyone else in the world of public gardens and bars and commercial cities. because he was the sound of your violin and he was the ink of your typewriter and he was the color of your drawings and he was your secret lover. but he wanted to be sure that he was living elsewhere behind paintings with Florentines behind pages of books with sal paradise behind discs of phonograph with the endless complaints of Jazz. because he was the sound of your violin and he was the ink of your typewriter and he was the color of your drawings and he was your secret lover.