I Like Poking My Nose Into Other

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.

At The Time It Seemed Like A Natural Development Of My Interest In What Was Going On Around Me In Society.

I'm Full Of Restlessness. Not Lonely, Exactly - My Head Is Racing With Ideas. But It Is That Old Treacherous Feeling That Real Life Is Happening Somewhere Else, And I'm Left Out.

Writers Seem To Me To Be People Who Need To Retire From Social Life And Do A Lot Of Thinking About What's Happened - Almost To Calm Themselves.

But There Are Some Wounds That Can Never Be Healed.