Perhaps If I Make Myself Write I

I Only Want To Write. And There's No College For That Except Life.

My Hand Is Very Tired But I Want To Go On Writing. I Keep Resting And Thinking. All Day I Have Been Two People - The Me Imprisoned In Yesterday And The Me Out Here On The Mound; And Now There Is A Third Me Trying To Get In - The Me In What Is Going To Happen Next.

Prayer's A Very Tricky Business.

I Could Hear Rain Still Pouring From The Gutters And A Thin Branch Scraping Against One Of The Windows; But The Church Seemed Completely Cut Off From The Restless Day Outside--just As I Felt Cut Off From The Church. I Thought: I Am A Restlessness Inside A Stillness Inside A Restlessness.

...with Stories Even A Page Can Take Me Hours, But The Truth Seems To Flow Out As Fast As I Can Get It Down.