Tomorrow Is Another Day Toward Death.

I Shut My Eyes And All The World Drops Dead; I Lift My Eyes And All Is Born Again.

And You Grit Your Teeth, Despising Yourself For Your Tremulous Sensitivity, And Wondering How Human Beings Can Suffer Their Individualities To Be Mercilessly Crushed Under A Machinelike Dictatorship, Be It Of Industry, State Or Organization, All Their Lives Long.

My Wanting To Write Books Annihilates The Original Root Impulse That Would Have Me Bravely And Blunderingly Working On Them.

That Afternoon My Mother Had Brought Me The Roses. "save Them For My Funeral," I'd Said.

Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is In Me. God, Must I Lose It In Cooking Scrambled Eggs For A Man.