Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of the year,
what does he think of that?
I mean, what do I do?
And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
Mayakovsky by Frank O’Hara from Meditations In An Emergency
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