I dream too much, work too little.

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

I think I may well be a Jew.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.