They are commiting murder who merely live.
In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.
It's extraordinary how little two people can understand each other and how cruel two people who are fond of each other can be to each other - there is practically no cruelty so awful because their power to hurt is so great.
At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.
What can I have that I still want?
I feel happy to be keeping a journal again. I've missed it, missed naming things as they appear, missed the half hour when I push all duties aside and savor the experience of being alive in this beautiful place.