I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.

To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.