At 5 A.M. the forms and shadows of my room vibrate translucent and black like buzzing flies, but this is nothing special. After the sun has dawned on the fog and I have shaken the sleep from my head, these forms and shadows have clearly become books on shelves precisely chair before desk in living color, but this, too, is nothing special. Sometimes I am depressed. Sometimes I miss my friends. And I confess I can not tell whether these be the consequences of accidents. Sometimes I feel like a hard and sour bug crawling on a cold floor, but I know I have to tell myself that this is nothing special. If I were to hear when I listen and to see when I look things might seem different, I might be happy, but this would be no more special than the breeze through the screen door and the light through the window.
15 July 1981