She's Always Looking For Poetry And Passion

It's No Good. I've Been Trying To Sleep For The Last Half-hour, And I Can't. Writing Here Is A Sort Of Drug. It's The Only Thing I Look Forward To. This Afternoon I Read What I Wrote... And It Seemed Vivid. I Know It Seems Vivid Because My Imagination Fills In All The Bits Another Person Wouldn't Understand. I Mean, It's Vanity. But It Seems A Sort Of Magic... And I Just Can't Live In This Present. I Would Go Mad If I Did

I Was Too Green To Know That All Cynicism Masks A Failure To Cope - An Impotence, In Short; And That To Despise All Effort Is The Greatest Effort Of All.

That's The Trouble With Provincial Life. Everyone Knows Everyone And There Is No Mystery. No Romance.

I Have A Strange Illusion Quite Often. I Think I've Become Deaf. I Have To Make A Little Noise To Prove I'm Not. I Clear My Throat To Show Myself That Everything Is Normal. It's Like The Little Japanese Girl They Found In The Ruins Of Hiroshima. Everything Dead; And She Was Singing To Her Doll.

Only Fools Think Our Attitude To Our Fellow Men Is A Thing Distinct From Our Attitude To 'lesser' Life On This Planet.