I am not sure of the night. See how slowly it comes upon me, as though I were too sure, as though sleep were an easy blessing. Its darkness creates its own air of colorlessness, and in the reluctant bedroom closed windows do not keep it out. It will disappear when I finally wake up. It causes me disappointment. It dries with small crusts on my eyes. I ask for it as though it were a peace, and I am not satisfied. It comes alone and wary, and keeps its secrets. See how slowly it leaves.

2 May 1973