The past’s alive, occuring, not what’s stilled in memory. I try to fall asleep and fall into a reverie: a world of images from real life. The present enacts the past, reviving combinations. I think them over with different designs. Conversations in which friends in thought ask me thoughts and I in thought reply thoughts, resolving, reconciling important emotions becoming thoughts and answers necessarily important understanding. In special cases, I try to tell my friends what happened in thought, and they understand in thought, like writing poetry, or a letter to father, mother, past or present, to themselves, or in special cases to everyone. Even though I feel it, I try to think, to define the force in me, in us, which makes this effort, the trying, which makes the past live, the thoughts necessarily important, the poetry.