Though I Have No Productive Worth, I

If I Can Get On To My Sofa And Occupy Myself For Four Hours, At Intervals Through The Day, Scribbling My Notes, And Able To Read The Books That Belong To Me, In That They Clarify The Density, And Shape The Formless Mass Within, Life Seems Inconceivably Rich.

Ah! Those Strange People Who Have The Courage To Be Unhappy! Are They Unhappy, By The Way?

I Think That If I Get Into The Habit Of Writing A Bit About What Happens, Or Rather Doesn't Happen, I May Lose A Little Of The Sense Of Isolation And Desolation Which Abides With Me. My Circumstances Allowing Of Nothing But The Ejaculation Of One-syllabled Reflections, A Written Monologue By That Most Interesting Being, Myself, May Have Its Yet To Be Discovered Consolations.

The Difficulty About All This Dying, Is That You Can't Tell A Fellow Anything About It, So Where Does The Fun Come In?

Notwithstanding The Poverty Of My Outside Experience, I Have Always Had A Significance For Myself, And Every Chance To Stumle Along My Straight And Narrow Little Path, And To Worship At The Feet Of My Deity, And What More Can A Human Soul Ask For?