Now I am quietly waiting for <br />the catastrophe of my personality <br />to seem beautiful again, <br />and interesting, and modern. <br /><br />The country is grey and <br />brown and white in trees, <br />snows and skies of laughter <br />always diminishing, less funny <br />not just darker, not just grey. <br /><br />It may be the coldest day of <br />the year, what does he think of <br />that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, <br />perhaps I am myself again.