32, no wife, no baby.

No baby hurts.

There's lots of time.

I don't act silly anymore, and because of it,

I have to hear from so-called friends,

You've changed.

You used to be so crazy, so great.

They're not comfortable with me when I'm serious. Let them go to Radio City Music Hall.

Thirty-two. I saw all of Europe. Met millions of people. It was great for some, terrible for others.

I remember my thirty-st year when I cried,

To think, I may have to go on another 31 years. I don't feel that way this birthday.

I feel I want to be wise with white hair and a tall library and a deep chair by a fireplace.

Another year in which I stole nothing.

Eight years now and I haven't stole a thing.

I stopped stealing.

But I still lie at times and still I'm shameless, yet ashamed when it comes to asking for money.

32 years old and four hard real money, so bad, wonderful books of poetry.

The world owes me a million dollars.

I think I had a pretty weird thirty-two years. And if it weren't up to me, none of it, no choice

of two in the road if there were, I don't doubt I'd have chosen both.

I'd like to think Chats had it play the bell, the clue perhaps, in my unabashed declaration.

I'm a good example that there's such a thing called soul.

...