I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.

Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.

Yes, yes, I'm coming. Right up the top of the house. One moment I'll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind-what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and a gain through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the one never meets again.

And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

. . . clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude.

Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.

Life piles up so fast that I have no time to write out the equally fast rising mound of reflections.