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and for your sake, I am glad you're out of it. I don't mean the world, but New York! It ought to give you food for thought, living in a bird-cage, & if you were cooking creamed potatoes and coffee, I should expect nothing less of you than a brilliant masterpiece in the way of something. But unless one cooks potatoes, very little can be done! Forgive this nonsense, but it has a false effect on me to write to you and my pen runs riot.
I am at present in the highly perplexing state of ripping & mending my story of the star-which is what I hate doing above all things. The inspiration has left me & I am barren of thoughts as usual I have lost all interest in it & think I shall probably let it rot for about a year. Then inadvertently come upon it, read it, smile & tear it up. That's the way of things, isn't it? For, you see, the star may be in my soul, & it crops up every once in a while but as I have never been able to catch it, it does me very little good. There is