I Sit At My Window And The

I Found When I Was A Child That If I Put The Hurt Into Words, It Would Go.

Age Seldom Arrives Smoothly Or Quickly. It's More Often A Succession Of Jerks.

My Life, Which Seems So Simple And Monotonous, Is Really A Complicated Affair Of Cafés Where They Like Me And Cafés Where They Don't, Streets That Are Friendly, Streets That Aren't, Rooms Where I Might Be Happy, Rooms Where I Shall Never Be, Looking-glasses I Look Nice In, Looking-glasses I Don't, Dresses That Will Be Lucky, Dresses That Won't, And So On.

It Was The Darkness That Got You. It Was Heavy Darkness, Greasy And Compelling. It Made Walls Round You, And Shut You In So That You Felt Like You Could Not Breathe.

She Could Give Herself Up To The Written Word As Naturally As A Good Dancer To Music Or A Fine Swimmer To Water. The Only Difficulty Was That After Finishing The Last Sentence She Was Left With A Feeling At Once Hollow And Uncomfortably Full. Exactly Like Indigestion.