Things had been disorienting for me in America. There were no rules. Nobody knew who I was. I was confused, myself. The streets were crowded and noisy, a dance floor under dim lights. Barefoot men ran around at dusk screaming.

I heard that Allen Ginsberg lived in the East Village too. I looked for a solitary figure in bars, his dark hair wild. I’d approach him, I would be bold and impressive. He was the one who could explain things to me.

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