I have filled 3 Mead notebooks trying to figure out whether it was Them or Just Me.

One paradox of professional writing is that books written solely for money and/or acclaim will almost never be good enough to garner either.

My own terror of appearing sentimental is so strong that I’ve decided to fight against it, some; but the terror is still there. . . . Do you identify with a distaste/fear about sentimentality? Do you agree that, past a certain line, such distaste can turn everything arch and sneering and too ironic? Or do you have your own set of abstract questions to drive yourself nuts with?

Stay conscious and alive, day in and day out.

The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, 'then' what do we do?

I find in myself a need to get very away.

...morning is the soul's night.