My eyes would yield to weakness if I weren’t writing this. I just sneezed. It felt good. My three days are up. I want you to know what I’m going through. After all, I think it somehow affects what is going through this. There’s a way for something to be done that I don’t want to choose. I’m alone in this room with a clock and a sound of breathing. A dark window says it’s that time. An easy chair sets me in a question. Sleep, sleep is the natural reaction. Not much, is it? But it’s all that I can do. My mind would yield to weakness if I thought it couldn’t be done.
October 1972