It should be a happy day for me, sitting in the morning sun, but somebody’s ferns have been left out to die and it bothers me, it bothers me until I’m dizzy from bothering, although I’m dizzy as well because of the Spring, because of the pollen and the birds, my allergies and my love, my needs and my consideration, left out by my lady to dry up to die and to blow away, and they won’t blow away.

6 March 1979