I like sweating

“She admired me for having studied Latin. I was in awe of someone who could lay down beauty on paper.”

I make this note of dread, I register it. Neither my note or critique of it Will save us one iota. I know it. And.

I must write! It's going to be like smashing granite with fists, like turning myself inside out and exposing all my secrets to the outside world. I must write! To rid myself of these devils, to put my tormented soul finally to rest instead of letting it float in a pool of shame and sorrow. I must push on! Even if some hours spent at my desk appear wasted, or some of the story-lines I begin have to be discarded, I must press on. Otherwise the pain will be unbearable.

mood across the pages

To love what is plentiful

“Somehow in this country sea thoughts followed the thinker far inland”

“And have we room

The hours hung like fruit in night's tree means when I close my eyes and look inside me, a thousand open eyes span the moment of my waking.