And i'm talking with Ginsberg and dreaming of Whitman and walking the streets of Paris holding long-distance hands with O'Hara in New York (where I've never been and thankfully he can take me for the first time) and I pass by Proust and Chopin (they're sleeping and won't wake--who can blame them? The stones and hills are as beautiful as they are warm in the late August afternoon.) 

Everything seems perfectly planned in Haussmann's city. One footfall leads into another and another and onto a perfectly lined boulevard of perfect trees where the faintest sounds of Chopin on a piano sound like a Parisian Pied Piper leading me to the most perfect chocolate ice-cream cone and the most perfect date, watching the man at the piano. 

Mr. O'Hara, sometimes I wonder if all this talking with you and the others is healthy but I'd like to believe you wouldn't mind. Especially if we chat as I walk, a cone from Berthillon for lunch.