Whoever has no house now
Will never have one,
Whoever is alone
Will stay alone,
Will sit, read, write long letters
Through the evening,
And wander the boulevards
Up and down, restlessly,
While the dry leaves are blowing.

- "godness, it's harsh isnt it?"

-"well, perhaps. But truthful."

They call Kauffman a genius, maybe, 

but I just see an insecure man with incisive depiction of, Life.