Think. In A Minute From Now You

The Diary Will Really Try And Tell People Who You Are And What You Were. The Alternative Is Writing Nothing, Or Creating A Totally Lifeless, As It Is Leafless, Garden.

It Came To Me…that I Didn’t Want To Be Anywhere Else In The World At That Moment, That What I Was Feeling At That Moment Justified All I Had Been Through, Because All I Had Been Through Was My Being There. I Was Experiencing…a New Self-acceptance, A Sense That I Had To Be This Mind And This Body, Its Vices And Its Virtues, And That I Had No Other Chance Or Choice.

In Some Mysterious Way Woods Have Never Seemed To Me To Be Static Things. In Physical Terms, I Move Through Them; Yet In Metaphysical Ones, They Seem To Move Through Me.

The Battle Was Over. Our Casualties Were Some Thirteen Thousand Killed--thirteen Thousand Minds, Memories, Loves, Sensations, Worlds, Universes--because The Human Mind Is More A Universe Than The Universe Itself--and All For A Few Hundred Yards Of Useless Mud.

Death Is The Room That Is Always Empty.