I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

Strange, when one thinks of all the other boys, infinite experimental kisses, test tube infatuations, crushes, pseudo-loves. All through this physical separation, through the testing and the trying of the others, there has been this peculiar rapport, comradeship, of us two so alike, so similar, but for science-boy and humanities-girl - the introspection, self examination, biannual deep summarizing conversations, and then the platonic parting.

I dream too much, work too little.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

I can't deceive myself out of the bare stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure that character is fate, nothing is real, past or future, when you are alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false cheerful brilliance of the electric light. And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.