There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.

Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy.

I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.

I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.