I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.
My eyes are locked on, entirely loyal. I cannot look away. I am a sap. I sit, unmoving, I cannot move, I watch them. If only I had eyes for something else, if I could wander somewhere else. I am bored but it's my duty to be sad. I am needed by the other side of this relationship, Shapiro needs me like the sky the earth, because if no one is watching, are we really losing? Perhaps he does not need me.
St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus-the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the filth of life away," yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.
How are you to become legends? You've tried bats, you've hidden behind words, bullpens, and you are always sprinting back and forth from the diamond, always bursting forth, more games, more games, more games, yes, even in late August, you are still playing (why?), and the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines the observers. You will become famous for a vacancy in that department, that corner outfield.
Destroy yourself, if you don't know!
Destroy yourself, if you don't know!
It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.
"Fanny Brown is run away-scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. -Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. -I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds." -Mrs. Thrale.
I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.
It is easy to appear first place; it is difficult to be so. I admire you, front office, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter everyone flips to, and then is immediately ill.
"Baseball, with its long schedule, is supposed to offer a new chance daily to every player and team. Dramatic changes in a team's destiny are supposed to happen slowly, not overnight." -Mr. Hoynes
I've got to get out of here. I choose elbow pads and my dirtiest infielder. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from an offseason; you want me to go where you go, on roadtrips, through online portals, to columns, so I go where you don't want me to. It's barely August, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any first basemen downstairs. Turning, I ignore the standings and the power's off.