Now I'm quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.


The country is gray and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just gray.


It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

Frank O'Hara (Excerto do poema "Mayakovsky")

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