I Am Too Nervous To Eat Pie.

A Man Without Hands Came To The Door To Sell Me A Photograph Of My House. Except For The Chrome Hooks, He Was An Ordinary-looking Man Of Fifty Or So.

Ralph Also Took Some Classes In Philosophy And Literature And Felt Himself On The Brink Of Some Kind Of Huge Discovery About Himself. But It Never Came.

I've Crossed Some Kind Of Invisible Line. I Feel As If I've Come To A Place I Never Thought I'd Have To Come To. And I Don't Know How I Got Here. It's A Strange Place. It's A Place Where A Little Harmless Dreaming And Then Some Sleepy, Early-morning Talk Has Led Me Into Considerations Of Death And Annihilation.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

Woke Up This Morning With A Terrific Urge To Lie In Bed All Day And Read.