”Oh, well we could talk all night and have a good time and eat pizza and drink wine and by God we will when I get travelin money. Meanwhile, sweetie, be cool, be blessed, be relaxed, like roses in the rain here I see out my window right now.”

I open to any page then one more page and start reading from the top left and suddenly I'm in an entirely perfect world again

There's the raccoon in his fog, there the man to his fireside, and both are lonesome for God

it's time for me to quietly watch the world and even enjoy it

the world of raging action and folly and also of great gentle sweetness seen through the keyhole of his eye

I feel as if I am at a dead end and so I am finished. All spiritual facts I realize are true but I never escape the feeling of being closed in and the sordidness of self, the futility of all that I have seen and done and said. Maybe if I continued things would please me more but now I have no hope and I am tired.

A line from my diary: ‘We are sealed in our own little melancholy atmospheres, like planets, and revolving around the sun, our common but distant desire.’ Not so good, perhaps, but if you steal that line of mine, I’ll actually kill you, for a change.