Autumn arrives in the early morning.
But to be quite oneself one must first waste a little time.
Dogs are a habit, I think.
That is partly why women marry - to keep up the fiction of being in the hub of things.
Memory must be patchy; what is more alarming is its face-savingness. Something in one shrinks from catching it out - unique to oneself, one's own, one's claim to identity, it implicates one's identity in its fibbing.
Every love has a poetic relevance of its own; each love brings to light only what to it is relevant. Outside lies the junk-yard of what does not matter.