I’m sad. I try hard to be sad, but it’s so boring. It could be easier, like the purple light in the east as the sun sets yellow under orange. Purple? It is puce! Or the color of bird chirp, a solitary bird chirp or the slush of the river on a snagged log, but these things have no color— I am so stupid. At least I try to be stupid. Sometimes I think I don’t have a thought in my head. I wish it were be easier. Maybe I try too hard, and trying leads to dishonesty. Do the clouds try to be puce? Does the river try to be muddy? It is muddy; it is full of rain; it is muddy like khaki, G.I. khaki. It is the diarrhea of logged-out mountains. Does it try to be like that?
9 May 1981