Reading a silly book about our basic human needs— sex drunkenness and lies—I decide to write a serious thought. Shall I write about the night that won’t, yet, go away? Shall I describe the clock that whirs like the pages of a Bible? I am alone tonight. Let me interrupt myself to bend my smile into a line of verse. There is nothing here to laugh about except a few hundred pages of chicken scrawl. My wishes are translucent, like the skin of a dream. I want, by tomorrow, something to regret.
20 May 1982