I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.

I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold

...surely I could give him--a sort of contentment... That isn't enough to give. Not for the giver.

If you love people, you take them on trust.

I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?

I could hear rain still pouring from the gutters and a thin branch scraping against one of the windows; but the church seemed completely cut off from the restless day outside--just as I felt cut off from the church. I thought: I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.

What a tiny list of friends I have! All my fault. I less and less want to see people.