Yesterday we went downtown to have Claudia baptized! Rent paid (and for that I'm grateful) but there isn't much left in my pocket to fall back on - such a tiresome struggle: this day to day living. Maybe the record of the writers of the last 100 years is a period of unemployment.
Despite the grayness of the day there's a glare along the outlines of the hills.
What are the difficulties? better to seek the sun of the late afternoon. A week ago much to say - today the speech stumbles.
Taking for granted a society not conducive toward the fulfillment of difference and that the psychological societal determinants then the "real" is defined by the ambiance: that is the comedic resolution would be in the dropping of the last mask.
My failure as a writer and as a person is no body's business any more.
"Some must due simply because of poverty." So tired today - fell asleep on the train - went out but it looks like we'll be here for another year. Impossible to think of ways of getting out; we're here as they say and so we'll have to make the best of it. True an injustice has been done to us but the knowledge won't right it. I worry about my future (no longer do I have just myself to account for; there's no one to turn to - the turn to the self is superfluous since the nature of its moment was always taken for granted (their self-reliance postulate can never be separated (in reality) from the open market).
I've made my third book of songs - shorter than the others but nevertheless complete. Just my luck not to have enough (better any) money to print em (that is , Of Light, too)
"the root is just what the leaf knows nothing about". Oh the third book of songs is called Branches.
If a man is free - love and friendship come easy.