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

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.

I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.

Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.