Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.