I think about my old relationships—all of them special, special kinds of failures—in a way, which is not to lay a blame or to say what should have been. These women are still my friends—we say. I hear the cars pass by on the freeway—it’s after midnight, and I am in my bed. The situation seems normal—in a word, although I feel that either everything or nothing is, and it’s too late to say everything is—it’s too late.
9 September 1980