And towards the end of summer, the glamour of Isadora crossing and uncrossing her legs.

The woman in my dream was named Susan, an actress. When I woke it occurred to me that she was the woman I saw on a street corner a few years ago. She smiled but not so much at me as at the Rimbaud pin I was wearing on my lapel.

It was a winter of Polish potato vodka and Russian cigarettes.

We felt like Charles and Mary Lamb on their way to the asylum.