I went to a party last night and the literary value of the personages was like fine linen paper in a box of stationary and a very expensive fountain pen. There was a sitar and an accordion player on a veranda overlooking a spring garden in full bloom. I talked to a woman in the most exorbitant array of textures and colors I have ever seen, but which gave me the impression that she had arranged them artistically and fashionably beneath her orange-streaked and brown-hair color. Her hair was Cleopatraesque and her eye glasses were honey-rimmed and olive-lensed and she wore one pink semi-precious stone in gold on her lip. Her lipstick was streaked on her left, which is where I wanted to put my hand and wipe it for her. I also wanted to kiss her. Her clothes were so thick. And the weight of her bracelets seemed like she was dragging a Persian carpet on an old wooden floor. She left before I read “A Prescription for Remembering Flowers” over the musical piece “Gliding Grace.” Each person was as deep and as interesting as the aforementioned.