The Past Is Just Something That's Over.

In The Eternal Lazy Morning Of The Pacific, Days Slip Away Into Months, Months Into Years; The Seasons Are Reduced To The Faintest Nuance By The Great Central Fact Of The Sunshine; One Might Pass A Lifetime, It Seems, Between Two Yawns, Lying Bronzed And Naked In The Sand.

I Seldom Try To Probe The Mystery Of My Sloth. I Have Squandered A Gigantic Fortune Of Work Hours... Seems Likely That I'll Go On Squandering Till The Very End.

I'm Horrified To Find, As I Look At These Diaries Of Twenty-five Years Ago Or More, That I Don't Remember Who The People Were. "bill And Tony Were Constantly In And Out. We Went To La Jolla" - Or Something. I Haven't The Bluest Idea Who They Were!

Waking Up Begins With Saying Am And Now. That Which Has Awoken Then Lies For A While Staring Up At The Ceiling And Down Into Itself Until It Has Recognized I, And Therefrom Deduced I Am, I Am Now. Here Comes Next, And Is At Least Negatively Reassuring; Because Here, This Morning, Is Where It Has Expected To Find Itself: What’s Called At Home.

I Doubt If One Ever Accepts A Belief Until One Urgently Needs It.