As A Person, I'm Polite - I

I Try To Write About Small Insignificant Things. I Try To Find Out If It’s Possible To Say Anything About Them. And I Almost Always Do If I Sit Down And Write About Something. There Is Something In That Thing That I Can Write About. It’s Very Much Like A Rehearsal. An Exercise, In A Way.

And It's A Disquieting Thought That Not Even The Past Is Done With, Even That Continues To Change, As If In Reality There Is Only One Time, For Everything, One Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven. One Single Second, One Single Landscape, In Which What Happens Activates And Deactivates What Has Already Happened In Endless Chain Reactions, Like The Processes That Take Place In The Brain, Perhaps, Where Cells Suddenly Bloom And Die Away, All According To The Way The Winds Of Consciousness Are Blowing.

If You Are Disappearing From Yourself, But You're Still Writing, Then There Is A Kind Of Activity Of Thinking Going On, Which In My World Is Similar To What's Going On In Music.

The Tree Was So Old, And Stood There So Alone, That His Childish Heart Had Been Filled With Compassion; If No One Else On The Farm Gave It A Thought, He Would At Least Do His Best To, Even Though He Suspected That His Child's Words And Child's Deeds Didn't Make Much Difference. It Had Stood There Before He Was Born, And Would Be Standing There After He Was Dead, But Perhaps, Even So, It Was Pleased That He Stroked Its Bark Every Time He Passed, And Sometimes, When He Was Sure He Wasn't Observed, Even Pressed His Cheek Against It.

Saying What You Believe Others Want To Hear Is, Of Course, A Form Of Lying.