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

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I used to pray to recover you.

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

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