Lost Time Is Like A Run In

Perhaps I Am A Bear, Or Some Hibernating Animal Underneath, For The Instinct To Be Half Asleep All Winter Is So Strong In Me.

What Release To Write So That One Forgets Oneself, Forgets One's Companion, Forgets Where One Is Or What One Is Going To Do Next To Be Drenched In Sleep Or In The Sea. Pencils And Pads And Curling Blue Sheets Alive With Letters Heap Up On The Desk.

Grief Can't Be Shared. Everyone Carries It Alone. His Own Burden In His Own Way.

People Talk About Love As If It Were Something You Could Give, Like An Armful Of Flowers.

Is There Anything As Horrible As Starting On A Trip? Once You're Off, That's All Right, But The Last Moments Are Earthquake And Convulsion, And The Feeling That You Are A Snail Being Pulled Off Your Rock.