A Day Wasted On Others Is Not

I Want To Escape From Myself. For When I Do Start Up And Stare Myself Seedily In The Face, As Happens To Be My Case At Present, My Blankness Is Inconceivable--indescribable--my Misery Amazing.

We Were Equals Afterwards, As We Had Been Before; But, Afterwards At Quiet Times When I Sat Looking At Joe And Thinking About Him, I Had A New Sensation Of Feeling Conscious That I Was Looking Up To Joe In My Heart.

There Was No Wind; There Was No Passing Shadow On The Deep Shade Of The Night; There Was No Noise. The City Lay Behind Him, Lighted Here And There, And Starry Worlds Were Hidden By The Masonry Of Spire And Roof That Hardly Made Out Any Shapes Against The Sky. Dark And Lonely Distance Lay Around Him Everywhere, And The Clocks Were Faintly Striking Two.

I Had Considered How The Things That Never Happen, Are Often As Much Realities To Us, In Their Effects, As Those That Are Accomplished.

And Could I Look Upon Her Without Compassion, Seeing Her Punishment In The Ruin She Was, In Her Profound Unfitness For This Earth On Which She Was Placed, In The Vanity Of Sorrow Which Had Become A Master Mania, Like The Vanity Of Penitence, The Vanity Of Remorse, The Vanity Of Unworthiness, And Other Monstrous Vanities That Have Been Curses In This World?