of you, raw American, rare dancer, vagabond, laughing boy and weeping sentimentalist, ah, you are a fantastic person! What made you grow so curiously? Why did folks never tell you? What made you not believe me when I told you I was a surface swimmer? The sea—and life—have no depth for me. You, my dear, must learn to avoid the rapids, the tides, the swifter currents. You must float—like me. A bleeding heart is not a pretty sight. Pull the zipper tight and show it never again.
Now it is January. You are teaching the dance to Cincinnati, this night. It will be bitter cold there and you should learn how to drink hot rum and heavy wines—if you can find them in Cincinnati. Soon you will be in Chicago, a long run, I trust; and in April, with my revue open here, I shall fly to you, fly to you.
In the meantime, cheerio, old dear, and a bit o' fluff be your heart, to toss on every wind that blows.
