I neither want to be alone nor to be with anyone who doesn’t want to be alone. Somewhere my loved one sits watching the birds, which is what I do—I watch the birds. They screech to their mates. It’s spring. They don’t seem happy or free. I would neither screech to my love nor have her screech to me. I would rather she come and cry a tear since I’ve already cried mine.
29 April 1977