I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My

I See So Much More Than I Used To See. The Effect Has Been To Depress And Sadden And Hurt Me Terribly.

Men May Rise On Stepping Stones Of Their Dead Selves To Higher Things.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.

I Am Tired. My Arm Aches. My Head Boils. My Feet Are Cold. But I Am Not Aware Of Any Weakness.

There Are Hours When I Must Force The Novel Out Of My Mind And Be Interested In The Children.