Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air; the sound of water was in the room and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.
Life stand still here.
Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.
Surely it was time someone invented a new plot, or that the author came out from the bushes.
The habit of writing for my eye is good practice. It loosens the ligaments.
I want some one to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarreling and reconciliation I need privacy--to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits.