They Would Grow Old. They Would Forget

I Can't Be Satisfied With The Colossal Job Of Merely Living.

I Had Always Imagined Myself Hitching Up On To My Elbows On The Delivery Table After It Was All Over - Dead White, Of Course, With No Makeup And From The Awful Ordeal, But Smiling And Radiant, With My Hair Down To My Waist, And Reaching Out For My First Little Squirmy Child And Saying Its Name, Whatever It Was.

Every Day Is Precious And I Feel Infinitely Sad At This Time Melting Away From Me.

The Moon Is No Door. It Is A Face In Its Own Right, White As A Knuckle And Terribly Upset. It Drags The Sea After It Like A Dark Crime; It Is Quiet With The O-gape Of Complete Despair. I Live Here.

There Is A Certain Unique And Strange Delight About Walking Down An Empty Street Alone.