I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

Tomorrow is another day toward death.

The box is only temporary.

Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

Please let him come, and give me the resilience & guts to make him respect me, be interested, and not to throw myself at him with loudness or hysterical yelling; calmly, gently, easy baby easy. He is probably strutting the backs among crocuses now with seven Scandinavian mistresses. And I sit, spiderlike, waiting, here, home; Penelope weaving webs of Webster, turning spindles of Tourneur. Oh, he is here; my black marauder; oh hungry hungry. I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait; and he plays on the banks of the river Cam like a casual faun.

I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.

I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.