Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.
I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.
Like many other much-loved humans, they believed that they owned their dogs, instead of realizing that their dogs owned them.
Well, my paper has asked me to do a series: Lives of the Great Musicians, reading time 2 minutes.
What a tiny list of friends I have! All my fault. I less and less want to see people.
Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.