Weird Whitney, I saw you on the weekend. Only made it to one floor. She was sick, and so was I. By bright lights, technicolor. I don't understand you. Thank God for gift shops, raindrops, things that stop. And my membership, now what?

But the MoMA, I will let you in. Seven years and now I see. What I was missing. I really feel like kissing. French boys in the afternoon, when it's dark. And we're wandering, wandering downtown, wandering west. You are learning to hug. It is the American way. The freckles on your face, like constellations, make me smile. It's like looking at the sky. So high. So high.