The journey over the bridge had unnerved me. The river water passed me by like an untouched drink. I suspected that even if my mother and brother had not been there I would have made no move to jump.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

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

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.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

If you dissect a bird / to diagram the tongue, / you'll cut the chord / articulating song.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.