If You Pluck Out My Heart To

Every Day One Has To Earn The Name Of 'writer' Over Again, With Much Wrestling.

The Night Sky Is Only A Sort Of Carbon Paper, Blueblack, With The Much-poked Periods Of Stars Letting In The Light, Peephole After Peephole--- A Bonewhite Light, Like Death, Behind All Things.

Nothing Stinks Like A Pile Of Unpublished Writing.

Very Depressed Today. Unable To Write A Thing. Menacing Gods. I Feel Outcast On A Cold Star, Unable To Feel Anything But An Awful Helpless Numbness.

If Only A Group Of People Were More Important To Me Than The Idea Of A Novel, I Might Begin A Novel.