when i die, let them say that i died of ennui. let them say that i died because i ran out of ideas. or that i could not find a way out of a poem i started that did not compromise me. when i die, let them say it was from one too many kisses. or sudden tenderness. or because my heart could no longer stand to be called darling. when i die, let them say it was ridiculous. let them say is was impossible. let them say it was my best work ever.
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary
