I Don't Know What It Is I'm

I Have Given Up Considering Happiness As Relevant.

A Small And Sinister Snow Seems To Be Coming Down Relentlessly At Present. The Radio Says It Is Eventually Going To Be Sleet And Rain, But I Don't Think So; I Think It Is Just Going To Go On And On, Coming Down, Until The Whole World...etc. It Has That Look.

If You're Doing Nonsense It Has To Be Rather Awful, Because There'd Be No Point. I'm Trying To Think If There's Sunny Nonsense. Sunny, Funny Nonsense For Children — Oh, How Boring, Boring, Boring. As Schubert Said, There Is No Happy Music. And That's True, There Really Isn't. And There's Probably No Happy Nonsense, Either.

If I Do Not Seem To Be Mentioning Anything I’ve Read Lately, It Is Because I Am In One Of Those Periods Of Undifferentiated Flux Or Something In Which I Am Reading About Fifty, At A Minimum, Books At Once, So Of Course I Seldom Finish One. Eventually This Phase Will Pass, And I’ll Discover I Have About Ten Pages To Go In All Of Them, And Will Sit Down And Systematically Finish Them, One After Another.

The World May Think It Idiotic, Nor Care At All We're Symbiotic, But I Will Say At Once And Twice: I Find It Nice. I Find It Nice.