But they know. They all know. And what am I against so many…?

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.

Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.