When I put on these moods. When something in me moves them. I would understand if I saw in the morror organic clay scarred with pot marks and boils, puss and blood oozing over raw flesh, eyes like dark glassy agates in bloody holes. I would understand if bread were bloody rags, if meat were rotten raw with lice. I would understand if air were always cold and clammy, if every smell stunk. I would understand if time had no interval to make sound music, if light had no color, if change had no movement. An agony moves when I have not seen and yet believe. I am blessed; I suffer.
February 1971